Patrick Dewaere and gender identity in
Giscardian France (1974-1981)
Submitted by Bridget Mary Birchall, to the University of Exeter as a
thesis for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Film Studies, July 2007.
This thesis is available to the Library for use on the understanding that it is
copyright material and that no quotation from the thesis may be published
without proper acknowledgement.
I certify that all material in this thesis which is not my own work has been
identified and that no material has previously been submitted for the award
of a degree by this or any other University.
…………………………………….Bridget Mary Birchall
1
Acknowledgements
I must first and foremost thank the AHRC for sponsoring this research project.
Above all I am indebted to my supervisor Prof. Susan Hayward for her loyal and patient
dedication to my research and to our friendship. She has been a constant inspiration
during this process and without her intellectual, practical and emotional support this
thesis would not have been completed.
I must also give my heart-felt thanks to Dr. Will Higbee, who has been a wonderful
teacher, friend and mentor throughout my time at the University of Exeter.
I am extremely grateful to Prof. Ginette Vincendeau and Dr. Sue Harris for their
generous loan of film texts, without which I would not have been able to complete
Chapters Five and Nine.
I would like to thank all members (both past and present) of the Centre for Research
into Film Studies at the University of Exeter who have not only been loyal colleagues
but who have also offered me invaluable feedback on my work. Special thanks go to Dr.
Song Hwee Lim and Andy Patch, who have been particularly supportive in this last
long year. I am also very grateful to Jennie Cousins and Dr. Helen Hanson who read my
work and offered vital comments and suggestions.
In the last four years I have been extremely fortunate to receive the generous support
and love of numerous friends in Exeter and beyond. Special mention must go to Pilar
Fernandez-Gonzalez, Sara Melendro, Sunie Fletcher, Simon Mitchell, Emma Roberts,
Elizabeth Sercombe and Rose Curnew. I would also like to thank Mark Evans and
Steven McMahon who warmly welcomed me into their homes during my numerous
research trips to London. I must lastly express my gratitude to Mike Lawson-Smith, for
his friendship, and for his ‘final hour’ practical support.
My family have shown me tremendous encouragement and unrelenting support
throughout my studies. I am forever indebted to my parents Annabelle and Andy
Birchall, to Madeleine Birchall and to Loretta and Ben Bosence. They have inspired me
to continue even when I thought I could not.
Finally, I must thank my dear friend and partner John Sealey. He has shown me levels
of love, generosity and patience that I never dreamt possible.
2
Abstract
The aim of this thesis is to analyse the configuration of gender in Giscardian France
(1974-1981), as it is represented through the life and work of Patrick Dewaere. To this
end, this thesis has the following three correspondent aims: first, to document and
analyse the socio-political and historical contexts that influenced the configuration of
gender during this period. Second, to position Dewaere in relation to the broader context
of 1970s French cinema primarily in the form of contemporary stars with whom he
worked – and the filmic representation of gender during this period. Third, to map and
explore Dewaere’s on and off-screen life against these sets of contexts. By looking at
Dewaere’s life in this way this thesis will not only present a critical response to the
research question as it concerns gender identity but it will also fill a small gap in the
current dearth of work that exists on 1970s French film.
3
LIST OF CONTENTS
Introduction
8-18
Part One
Chapter One
Socio-political Context
21-57
Chapter Two
Theoretical Contexts
59-79
Chapter Three
Critical Biography of Patrick Dewaere
81-122
Chapter Four
1970s Star Bodies: Lino Ventura and
Gérard Depardieu
124-165
1970s Star Bodies: Catherine Deneuve,
Annie Girardot and Miou-Miou
167-217
Dewaere’s Carnivalesque Body:
Themroc (Faraldo, 1973)
220-247
The Aetiology of Hysteria: F. comme Fairbanks
(Dugowson, 1976)
249-263
The Dance of Lack: Topographies of Hysteria
and Masculinity in Série noire (Corneau, 1979)
265-295
Dean man walking: Beau père (Blier 1981)
and Un Mauvais fils (Sautet, 1980)
297-350
Chapter Five
Part Two
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Conclusion
352-357
Appendix
359-365
Bibliography
367-376
4
Filmography
(Including Theatre and Television performance)
5
378-381
List of illustrations
FIG 1 p.85
Misère et noblesse (Jacques Fabbri, 1956)
FIG 2: p.87
Jean de la tour miracle (Carrère, 1967)
FIG 3: p.92
Miou-Miou and Dewaere in F. comme Fairbanks (Dugowson,
1976)
FIG 4: p.96
Patrick Dewaere at the Café de la gare
FIG 5: p.111
Patrick Bouchitey and Patrick Dewaere in La Meilleure f açon
de marcher (Miller, 1976)
FIG 6: p.113
The Masked Ball (Dewaere and Bouchitey)
FIG 7: p.130
Ventura and Dewaere in Adieu Poulet (Granier-Deferre,1974).
FIG 8: p.133
Ventura the Family Man
FIG 9: p.140
Lino Ventura ‘Mort d’un homme’
FIG 10: p.143
Dewaere and Depardieu on the set of Préparez vos mouchoirs
(Blier, 1978)
FIG 11: p.147
Depardieu, Miou-Miou and Dewaere in Les Valseuses (Blier,
1974)
FIG 12: p.172
Publicity material for Liza (Ferrerri, 1972)
FIG 13: p.179
Deneuve and Dewaere in Hôtel des Amériques
FIG 14: p.191
Annie Girardot and Patrick Dewaere in La Clé sur la porte
FIG 15: p.192
Annie Girardot and Patrick Dewaere in La Clé sur la porte
FIG 16: p.195
Dewaere and Miou-Miou circa 1975
FIG 17: p.204
Patrick Dewaere, Miou-Miou and Gérard Depardieu (1974)
FIG 18: p.205
Dewaere, Miou-Miou and Depardieu in Les Valseuses (Blier,
1974)
FIG 19: p.238
Cannibalism in Themroc (Faraldo, 1973
FIG 20: p.240
Dewaere prepares to cross the divide
FIG 21: p.249
The Male Family in Lily-aime moi (Dugowson, 1975)
FIG 22: p.253
Dewaere as André/ Fairbanks
FIG 23: p.256
André and the primordial object of satisfaction
6
FIG 24: p.257
Dewaere and Miou-Miou in F. comme Fairbanks (Dugowson,
1976)
FIG 25: p.278
Act One – Dance of lack
FIG 26: p.279
Act One – Dance of Lack (tape recorder as gun)
FIG 27: p.281
Act Two – Dance of Lack
FIG 28: p.283
Act Three – Dance of Lack – channelling genders
FIG 29: p.311
Bruno/ Dewaere’s empty body in Un Mauvais fils (Sautet, 1980)
FIG 30: p.314
The limp and empty body coincide in Un Mauvais fils (Sautet,
1980)
FIG 31: p.322
The empty body in Part One of Un Mauvais fils (Sautet, 1980)
FIG 32: p.323
The reasserted masculine self?
FIG 33: p.327
The body as a mise-en-abîme of emptiness
FIG 34: p.329
The empty body and film technology
FIG 35: p.340
Ariel Besse and Patrick Dewaere in Beau père (Blier, 1981)
FIG 36: p.341
The overwhelming presence of Charlotte (Natalie Baye)
7
Introduction
8
Introduction
The aim of this thesis is to analyse the configuration of gender in Giscardian France
(1974-1981), as it is represented through the life and work of Patrick Dewaere. To this
end, this thesis has the following three correspondent aims: first, to document and
analyse the socio-political and historical contexts that influenced the configuration of
gender during this period. Second, to position Dewaere in relation to the broader context
of 1970s French cinema primarily in the form of contemporary stars with whom he
worked – and the filmic representation of gender during this period. Third, to map and
explore Dewaere’s on and off-screen life against these sets of contexts. By looking at
Dewaere’s life in this way this thesis will not only present a critical response to the
research question as it concerns gender identity but it will also fill a small gap in the
current dearth of work that exists on 1970s French film.
Firstly, I need to address the question, why look at the 1970s, and why in relation to
gender? France in the 1970s, and particularly the Giscardian period saw, as we shall see,
considerable socio-economic change and evolution. It witnessed the rise and (the
beginnings of) the fall of the French women’s movement, the decline of the French
Communist Party, the fall of Gaullism, the strengthening of the Socialist Party and the
end of Les trentes glorieuses.1 What also took place during this period, in relation to
the changes just listed, was a transformation of family life, and in particular, the roles of
men and women. What I shall argue is that, although many reforms were made to
society, these were not always far-reaching, were often beset with contradictions, and a
dominant conservative political culture still influenced French society. In this thesis, I
This term the ‘thirty glorious years’ refers to the post-war period when France enjoyed an economic
boom, which was stopped in its tracks in 1973 by the petrol crisis. This will be looked at in much greater
detail in Chapter One.
1
9
shall ask to what extent Dewaere’s star body interacts with, embodies or contradicts this
political culture, particularly in relation to gender.
Before I outline in what ways I shall investigate Dewaere’s gendered star body, let us
first look at what work has already taken place within the domain of 1970s French film.
The journal Studies in French Cinema began to address the lack of critical attention to
this period with a conference dedicated to the 1970s in 2002. It has also since published
several articles that take the 1970s as their central focus.2 In her book The French
Cinema after the New Wave (1992), Jill Forbes engages with a number of central trends
and figures within 1970s French cinema, looking at the key genres (for example the
thriller and the New French Comedy) and some of the decade’s most important
directors (including Bertand Blier, Jacques Doillon, René Allio and Maurice Pialat).
This excellent study will provide me with a substantial amount of contextual
information relating to the 1970s.
The only Anglophone book to look at the seventies in depth is Alison Smith’s French
Cinema in the 1970s: The echoes of May (2005). Like Forbes, in Smith’s book the
reader’s understanding of the decade is not framed by a socio-political outline and little
reference is made to the government of Giscard. Similarly, as with (to a certain extent)
Forbes’ study and the articles that have appeared in Studies in French Cinema, Smith’s
focus is on the whole auteur-based. The reader’s appreciation of her otherwise
2 See for example the following articles (all from Studies in French Cinema): Brian Price (2001), 'The
End of Transcendence, The Mourning of Crime: Bresson’s Hands', 2:3, 127-34, Tim Palmer (2001),
'Jean-Pierre Melville and 1970s French Film Style', 2:3, 135-45, Will Higbee (2001), 'Yves Boisset’s
Dupont Lajoie (1974): racism, civic cinema and the "immigrant question" ', 2:3, 147-56. See also Carrie
Tarr (2002), 'Feminist Influences on the work of Yannick Bellon in the 1970s', 3:1, 55-65, and Raphaël
Bassan, Gérard Courant, Christian Lebrat, Dominique Noguez (2004), 'French experimental cinema: the
richness of the 1970s', 4.3, 163-174.
10
interesting observations is therefore restricted. Film studies texts that do provide us with
a socio-political overview of the decade do so within wider studies of French cinema,
for example Jean-Pierre Jeancolas (1978) and Susan Hayward (1993). Given its date of
publication, Jeancolas’ text is unable to cover the final years of Giscard’s presidency,
and does not, therefore, consider the transition from the right to the left wing
governments in 1981. Hayward, on the other hand, is restricted by the broad aims of
French National Cinema, and is therefore only able to give a concise two page
overview of Giscard’ presidency (Hayward, 1993: 216-217). This thesis therefore aims
to expand upon the informative and insightful contributions already made by Hayward
and Jeancolas and provide the reader with a broader, more detailed overview of the era.
Areas of 1970s French cinema that have already been touched include certain aspects of
genre cinema (particularly the policier or thriller) and the work of (largely) male
auteurs. The focus on the auteur within these texts is perhaps unsurprising as it is a
well-recognised preoccupation of French film studies (Vincendeau, 2000: x). Until
recently, what has been lacking in the existing approaches to 1970s French film is an
investigation of stars from this decade. Guy Austin (2003b) has, however, gone some
way to address this omission with his short analyses of Dewaere, Depardieu and Sylvia
Kristel and Joe Dallesandro. Moreover, Vincendeau (2007) has also recently extended
her own work on stars to include a piece on Annie Girardot, which, unlike other studies
of the 1970s, includes considerable socio-political detail. However, with the exception
of Hayward’s Simone Signoret: The Star as Cultural Sign (2004) and Vincendeau and
Claude Gauteur’s Anatomie d’un mythe: Jean Gabin (2006), none of these star studies
has investigated these icons in an extended study, therefore limiting the depth and
breadth of analysis that can take place.3 Within a larger investigation, as is seen in both
3
See also Sonali Joshi (2006), Jean-Pierre Leaud, University of Glasgow (unpublished thesis).
11
Hayward and Vincendeau’s respective singular star studies, the star body can be used as
a way of unpicking French history and culture in considerable detail. Within their
studies, we see that the star body is a mobile signifier, which, with more ease than the
auteur, can move within and between studies of genre, technology, film form and sociopolitical context.
The question still remains, however, why choose to look at Dewaere? What is unique
about his star body? And what can his star body tell us about gender identity in the
1970s, and specifically the presidency of Giscard? Although Dewaere’s career was
relatively short (he committed suicide at the age of 35 in 1982), he remains crucial to
our understanding of 1970s French cinema for the following reasons. Firstly, Dewaere
is intrinsically linked to Giscard’s presidency. Despite the fact that Dewaere’s acting
career started well before the inauguration of Giscard, he experienced his greatest public
exposure and performed his most prominent film roles between 1974 and 1981 which,
as Austin notes, clearly correlates with the presidency of Giscard. He rightly argues
that:
Dewaere’s filmography […] coincides strongly with the presidency of Valéry Giscard d’Estaing[…], and
reflects pessimistically on that period. (Austin 2003: 87-88)
Secondly, as we shall see during the course of this thesis, Dewaere’s on and off-screen
life articulates the changing configuration of gender identities (and specifically
masculine gender identities) during this period. Thirdly, during his career, Dewaere
worked with several of the key 1970s actors and directors, many of whom have yet to
be explored critically. As a result, his star body is laden with cultural resonance and
provides a fertile base from which to develop other, related, analyses of 1970s French
12
film culture. Finally, Dewaere remains an important part of French film culture today4,
and is therefore a worthwhile star body to investigate and explore.
It is at this juncture important to address my reasons for consistently using the term star
body in this thesis, as opposed to other terms such as the star image (as used by Dyer
[1998:33]). Dyer uses the term star image ‘to emphasise the fact that we are talking
about a film star as a media text not as a real person’ (1998: 33). Although Dyer’s point
here is a valid one, what the term star image does not allow us to properly communicate
is the way in which the star is not a singular media text but rather a complex series of
overlapping and intersecting texts. Whereas the word ‘image’ suggests a 2-D projection
onto the cinema screen, the word ‘body’ allows us to convey density. Moreover, the
term body allows us to express corporeity of the star. Within this thesis I am
preoccupied not only with the star’s image but also with physical performance, voice
and costume. I am also concerned with the way in which, as with our own bodies, the
star body mutates, evolves and ultimately decays during a career. Through the term ‘star
body’ I hope to emphasise the importance of the evolution of the physical body in the
star’s meaning.
My thesis is broken down into two parts. In Part One I establish the different contexts in
which we can situate Dewaere’s body. In Chapter One I establish the socio-political
context of the time. In Chapter Two I set out the methodological framework I intend to
adopt in my study of Dewaere as a star body. Chapter Three focuses on Dewaere and
provides a biographical account of the star. In the last chapter of Part One, I provide a
final set of contexts, that of other star bodies of this period, against which it is useful to
4
See for example the film documentary Patrick Dewaere (Esposito, 1992), the television documentary
Patrick Dewaere (Moix, 2003) and the recent release of a box set of ten of his films by Studio Canal
(2006). See also the interactive web site www.myspace.com/dewaere and www.dewaere.online.fr , which
are both excellent examples of Dewaere’s continued popularity.
13
study Dewaere’s own – not least because he co-starred with them in at least one film (if
not more). Part Two is divided into four chapters, each of which develops a detailed
textual analysis of one and, in the case of Chapter Nine, two Dewaere films. Before
summarising the content of these two parts I would like to first explain my decision to
break the thesis down in this way.
My methodological strategy is strongly influenced by the work of Richard Dyer, who
uses a socio-cultural approach to star studies. According to Dyer
We’re fascinated by stars because they enact ways of making sense of the experience of being a person in
a particular kind of social production (capitalism) […] Stars represent typical ways of behaving, feeling
and thinking in contemporary society. (Dyer 2004: 14)
In order to make sense of Dewaere’s star body, we need to first understand what aspects
of Giscardian society he might embody, and to do that, I will need to establish a sociopolitical outline of Giscardian France, against which I can situate his star body in the
rest of the thesis. However, as I will note in Chapter Two, this approach alone is an
insufficient way in which to understand Dewaere’s gendered star body. Consequently,
in Chapter Two I will define what other methodological approaches I shall take in my
study of Dewaere’s star body. Most importantly, I will explain how I understand the
concept of gender identity – which is at the centre of my research question. Within this
chapter I will summarise the various critical approaches that will help me understand
this term, and that shall be adopted in my examination of Dewaere’s gendered star
body. The thesis is interdisciplinary in that it draws on methods from star studies,
gender studies, cultural studies and social theory. What provides the coherent thread
amongst these various critical approaches is, firstly, the socio-political context outlined
in Chapter One and secondly, my employment of Judith Butler (1990), whose theories
14
will become central to my understanding of gender identity during the course of this
thesis. By drawing upon Butler in my analysis of gender and the star body, I situate
myself within a recent trend within French film studies. 5 Butler’s Gender Trouble:
Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (1990) allows us to conceive of gender in a
way that moves us away from analyses of gender identity that are reliant on binary
oppositions. The other critical approaches that I draw upon in this thesis (Robert Stam
[1989], Elisabeth Bronfen [1998], and Elizabeth Hallam, Jenny Hockey and Glenny’s
Howarth [1999])6 also challenge the traditional understanding of gender as a distinct
division between male and female, and in the case of Bronfen, do so by both drawing
upon and confronting traditional psychoanalytic readings of the body and desire. What
these different methodologies also allow me to do is to identify the way in which
Dewaere’s gendered star body mutates and changes during the course of his career. For,
as Dyer suggested in his seminal work Stars (1998)7 the star body is in a constant state
of change and flux (Dyer, 1998: 63).
Part of the reason that the star body is constantly evolving in this way is that it is made
up of, and interacts with, numerous other texts. By texts I refer both to the numerous
forms of publicity that circulate the star body, but also to the films that they make, or
that they can be associated with. ‘Texts’ can also refer to the other star bodies and actors
that they interact with, both on and off-screen. In order to best articulate the way in
which the star body reflects and embodies these numerous texts, in Chapter Two I
propose that we might call it a ‘knotted body’8. This term will allow me to show that the
star body can be seen as a series of threads that have been knotted together. These
5
See for example Alex Hughes and James S. Williams (2001) Gender and French Cinema, Oxford, Berg.
See Elisabeth Bronfen (1998) The Knotted Subject: Hysteria and its Discontents, Robert Stam (1989),
Subversive Pleasures: Bakhtin, cultural criticism and film, Elizabeth Hallam, Jenny Hockey and Glenny’s
Howarth (1999) Beyond the body: death and social identity.
7
In this thesis, I use the second edition of Stars, released in 1998.
8
This idea comes from A.S Byatt, whose notion of the knotted subject is outlined by Bronfen (1998: 8).
6
15
threads might be filmic or extra-filmic texts, other star bodies, or strands of identity
(gender, sexuality, nationality, ethnicity, class etc.).9 The content and structure of the
thesis reflects this ‘knotted body’, in that each chapter represents a thread (or a series of
threads) within the body of Dewaere.
In Chapter Three of Part One I construct a critical biography of Dewaere’s life. The
structure of this chapter reflects the theoretical concept of the knotted star body, in that
it has been divided into three distinct, yet often overlapping narratives (or threads) that
run through Dewaere’s life. In this respect, this chapter is led by Hayward’s study of
Simone Signoret (2004), which is influenced by Stam’s employment of the literary term
‘chronotope’ (borrowed from Bakhtin). In her book Hayward initially divides Signoret’s
life into three separate narratives. Within each of these narratives, a series of
intersections occurs, allowing Hayward to explore both the density of Signoret’s on and
off-screen life and her star body’s wide-ranging relationship with French culture.
In Chapters Four and Five I focus on a further series of key ‘threads’ that run through
Dewaere’s knotted star body: those of contemporaneous star bodies. Unlike the majority
of French star studies, which tend to look at star bodies as singular case studies,10this
thesis looks at Dewaere in the context of five other star bodies. Using Butler’s
definitions of normative and non-normative gender (Butler, 1999: xx), I shall analyse
the gender identity of these five stars, outlining first the ways in which they might
reinforce or contradict dominant (gender) ideologies via their on and off-screen lives.
Thus five star bodies have been specifically chosen because each one of them has co9
As I shall acknowledge in Chapter Two, this notion of the knotted star body builds upon the notion
proposed by Dyer, of the ‘structured polysemy’: By polysemy is meant the multiple but finite meanings
and effects that a star image signifies. […]Structured polysemy does not imply stasis; images develop or
change over time. (Dyer 1998: 63)
10
Exceptions to this are certain chapters within Austin (2003), Vincendeau’s discussion of Alain Delon in
juxtaposition with Jean-Paul Belmondo and her discussion of a collection of New Wave stars (2000) and
Sarah Leahy’s unpublished doctoral thesis, which compares and contrasts the work of Simone Signoret
and Brigitte Bardot (2000).
16
starred with Dewaere, allowing me to compare and contrast Dewaere’s star body with
them, in order to identify how his own gendered body relates to dominant (gender)
ideology. In Chapter Four I will look at Lino Ventura and Gérard Depardieu, and in
Chapter Five, Catherine Deneuve, Annie Girardot and Miou-Miou. I have chosen these
particular stars not just because they acted alongside Dewaere in some of his key films,
but also because they were integral to 1970s film culture. Moreover, in the case of
Miou-Miou and, to a certain extent Depardieu, they had a significant impact on
Dewaere’s off-screen life.
Having established the contexts (or threads) of Dewaere’s ‘knotted star body’ in Part
One, in Part Two of this thesis I bring Dewaere’s film texts into the foreground, thus
providing textual and contextual analysis. I have divided Part Two into four chapters. I
shall now briefly outline the content of these chapters, whilst also explaining the
rationale behind my choice of films. In Chapter Six I look at Themroc (Faraldo, 1972).
In my discussion of the film I highlight its importance as a filmic testament to
Dewaere’s participation in the counter-cultural theatre movement of the late 1960s and
1970s – the café-théâtre. My argument in relation to this film and Dewaere’s gender
star body is that within it he acts as a catalyst for the (temporary) dissolution of both the
divisions of distinct genders (male and female) and also the dominance of the
heterosexual norm. In Chapter Seven, I examine F. comme Fairbanks (Dugowson,
1976). I have chosen this film over other mid-1970s films such as Les Valseuses (Blier,
1974) for two reasons. Firstly, Les Valseuses (Blier, 1974) has already received
considerable critical attention11 and secondly, F. comme Fairbanks is Dewaere’s first
leading male role and was written specifically for him, and is thus of vital importance.
In this Chapter I will argue, in relation to Bronfen’s study of the cultural representation
11
See Forbes (1993 and 2000), Sorlin (2006) and Harris
(2000).
17
of hysteria (1998), that Dewaere begins in this film to display a hysteric body, whose
gender identity is rendered unstable by the traumas that he experiences within his socioeconomic existence. I will demonstrate that although Dewaere’s character attempts to
retreat to the past to escape these traumas, he is constantly brought back into the
present. In Chapter Eight I look at what is recognised by many as Dewaere’s finest film:
Série noire (Coreneau, 1979). Here I will argue that the film is a highly representative
example of the self-destructive, violent and hysterical elements of Dewaere’s star body,
and that this is conveyed via his explosive and individualised performance. Finally in
Chapter Nine I look at two films in juxtaposition: Un Mauvais fils (Sautet, 1980) and
Beau père (Blier, 1981). I have chosen to look at these films because they document the
change in Dewaere’s image and performance style that took place in the last two years
of his career. The reason for juxtaposing these two films is that they both, to varying
degrees, embody the socio-economic strains that were placed upon masculine identities
towards the end of the 1970s and early 1980s in France. What I argue in both cases
(although, once again, to significantly different extents) is that in Un Mauvais fils and
Beau père, Dewaere’s star body can be seen as ‘socially dead’. This term, which is
taken from social theory12, describes an individual who has retreated from society and
who is no longer able to interact either physically, emotionally, linguistically, socially
or economically.
Finally, towards the end of the thesis, I shall draw the threads of Dewaere’s knotted star
body together, identifying the different mutations that his gendered body underwent
during his career, and what these different (yet, we shall see, overlapping) phases
signify in relation to gender identity in Giscardian France.
12
See Hallam et al (1999).
18
Part One
19
Chapter One
Socio-political Context
20
Chapter One
Socio-political context
Introduction: Dewaere, French cinema and 1970s political culture
The intention of this chapter is to provide a social-political context within which we can
locate Patrick Dewaere’s star body. This context will act throughout as a backdrop
against which to nuance aspects of Dewaere’s work and performance. It focuses on the
period 1968-1982, which corresponds with the beginnings of Dewaere’s career and the
period of his most pronounced stardom, and his eventual suicide. Beyond the star’s own
trajectory, it is crucial to note – given the focus of this thesis – that the period during
which Dewaere experienced the greatest public exposure and performed his most
prominent films roles was between 1974 and 1981 which, as Austin notes, clearly
correlates with the presidency of Giscard. He rightly argues that:
Dewaere’s filmography […] coincides strongly with the presidency of Valéry Giscard d’Estaing[…], and
reflects pessimistically on that period. (Austin 2003b: 87-88)
Austin draws parallels between the highs and lows of the 1970s and Dewaere’s film
career, offering a schematic outline of the way in which the actor’s film roles express
the aspirations and ultimate disappointments of young people during the 1970s. In this
chapter I intend to examine in more detail the socio-political and cultural factors that
gradually produced this eventual sense of malaise. This will allow me to determine
exactly how to map Dewaere’s filmography onto the presidency of Giscard. Thereafter
and throughout this thesis, my analyses of Dewaere’s star body, in terms of
performance, will be framed within the socio-political context that is set out here.
21
Taking into account not only the political mandate of Giscard and his centre-right
government, this section will also examine other forces within French political culture
during this period. This will provide us with a broader understanding of the 1970s. I
shall look at the socio-political ramifications of May 1968, the impact of the feminist
movement, the rise of the Socialist Party, the crisis of Gaullism, the presidentialisation
of French politics and the decline and waning of the political weight of the French
Communist Party. I shall ask how these developments all fed into the political and
social climate of the period 1974-1981. Although most attention will be paid to the
years of Giscard’s presidency, I shall also address the years that directly preceded
(1968-1973) and followed it (1981-1982). I do this for the following reasons. Firstly, I
examine the period 1968-1973 in order to take into account the impact of May 1968 and
the end of Gaullism on Giscardian France. Secondly, I look at the first year of François
Mitterrand’s presidency (1981-2) in order to note any trends that correspond with the
last year of Dewaere’s life and career.
I shall begin this contextual outline by summarising why, how and when the events of
May 1968 took place, and the impact this would then have on the subsequent
rehabilitation of the Socialist Party during the 1970s. I shall then look at how these
events also provided one of the catalysts for the demise of Gaullism during the early
1970s. This will lead onto a detailed examination of the presidency of Giscard. I shall
pay particular attention to the ways in which Giscard reformed French society, noting,
as Hayward (1993) and Jeancolas (1978) have done before me, the limitations that were
placed on these reforms. I shall then return to the evolution of the Socialist Party, which
before winning both the presidential and legislative elections in 1981, ran in close
competition with Giscard’s centre-right coalition throughout the latter’s presidency.
22
This will also allow me to consider the simultaneous demise of the other, once
dominant force in left-wing politics – the French Communist Party. In so doing I will
also examine the links this development had with the changing demographic structure
of France during the 1960s and 1970s. Finally, I shall briefly consider the first year of
Mitterrand’s presidency and the ways in which the president and his government were
unable to live out the enthusiastic optimism that greeted them in their first weeks in
office.
May 1968
The events of May 1968 grew out of a number of factors. The events largely involved
two separate groups: students and workers. Although they shared some frustrations
with the French government, their reasons for dissatisfaction with their place in French
society were on the whole different. Within a global climate of growing student
militancy, the French education system was opened up to criticism. French students felt
frustrated by the strains put upon the already inadequate facilities of educational
institutions by a massive influx of students in 1967 (Larkin 1988: 319). These students
also feared that the graduate job market had become more and more precarious given
the recent rise in unemployment, and that the government was unable to resolve the
situation. This last factor also caused anxiety amongst young workers, who already felt
aggrieved by wage stagnation and poor living conditions (Larkin 1988: 318). Workers
were also unhappy that the exchange of dialogue between themselves and management
was minimal (Cole, 1998: 27). On the whole, there was a sense that the working class,
who had been the dominant force behind France’s industrial growth post war and into
the 1960s had not benefited from the wealth accumulated from les trentes glorieuses –
the thirty glorious years of the French economy (Cole 1998: 27).
23
What emerged from this climate of discontent was a student rebellion that began at the
University of Nanterre and was initially led by sociology student Daniel Cohn-Bendit
(Larkin 1988: 320). Anarchist, Maoist and Trotskyiste student groups were strongly
involved in the protests. The French Communist Party, paradoxically, opposed the
action, and did so because the party line (coming from Soviet Russia) argued that small
group rebellions were ineffectual, and should therefore be discouraged (Larkin 1988:
320). At the beginning of May 1968, when the Nanterre campus was closed as a result
of the protests, the rebellion moved to the Sorbonne in central Paris. At this stage the
police became heavily involved (at the request of University management), and reacted
with excessive force. It was at this point that even moderate students became involved
in the protest and that the wider public (including workers’ unions) began to express
their solidarity with the protesters (Larkin 1988: 320). Following the initial protest,
students began the occupation of the Sorbonne. Debates and discussions were held in
university buildings, giving a useful forum to many activists including feminists,
ecologists and gays. Although, as Larkin argues, it would be misleading to believe the
events launched these movements. It is rather important to recognise that
the publicity and euphoria of these debates strengthened the impetus of such causes, enabling them to
shorten the distance that still separated them from the more advanced equivalent movements in the United
States and neighbouring European countries. (Larkin 1988: 320-1)
An example of one such movement that was to increase in stature following May 1968
was the FHAR (Le Front Homosexuel d’Action Revolutionnaire), which launched in
1971 and modelled itself on the American Gay Liberation Front. It sought to 'struggle
against patriarchy and bourgeois family morality' (Copley 1989: 225) and successfully
campaigned for legislation that would protect Gay Rights. This was not the only effect
24
of 1968. As I shall later explain the impact of feminism on the legislation and structure
of the family was deeply significant. The sociological developments that these
movements encouraged will be of central importance to our understanding of how
Dewaere’s star body is seen in relation to gender.
As the protests grew in force and impact, de Gaulle remained at a distance from the
events. At the beginning of the crisis de Gaulle was on a state visit to Romania.
Meanwhile the situation escalated. The students called workers to join them in their
protests and called for a strike to take place on 13th May. Their rally was successful and
700,000 protested. When de Gaulle returned on 18th May he found the ‘the railways,
postal services, and airlines at a standstill’ (Larkin 1988: 323). Two days later, 10
million people (nearly one fifth of the population) were on strike (Larkin 1988: 323)13.
On top of this, the violence of the protests had escalated as the month had progressed
(Larkin 1988: 324). As the crisis mounted de Gaulle remained conspicuously absent,
whilst the Prime Minister Pompidou began increasingly to take control of the
situation.14
The parliamentary left, led by an opportunistic Mitterrand, took advantage of the
government’s inept reaction to the events. Mitterrand proposed an interim government
to replace the Gaullist regime. He put forward Mendès-France as a replacement Prime
Minister and himself as a future President of the Republic. Mitterrand hoped to cash in
on Mendès-France’s relative popularity with the students, with whom (in truth)
Mitterrand himself failed to truly identify (Cole 1998: 24). Ultimately the motion was
not passed, falling short, however, by a mere eleven votes (Larkin 1988: 323). When the
13
The French population in 1968 was 49,778,000.
In addition the situation was not helped by the inexperience of the Education minister Alain Peyrefitte
(Larkin 1988: 319).
14
25
Gaullist government eventually regained control a month later, the left, and particularly
Mitterrand, suffered enormously as a result of this failed proposition.
Correspondingly, the Gaullist government began to claw back control of the situation.
Pompidou steered the way towards the so-called Grenelle talks that took place on 25th
and 26th May. These led to the eponymous agreements that aimed to increase pay and
improve working conditions. Despite concessions made regarding pay, some issues did
not progress and workers accused union leaders of selling out to the government (Larkin
1988: 324). De Gaulle himself only really began to regain control once he had followed
Pompidou’s advice to call a general election. De Gaulle initially wanted to call a
referendum, but was advised against it by Pompidou. On 30th May, de Gaulle spoke to
the French people in a radio address to announce the election. For many French people,
this address provided them with the reassurance they were looking for from their
President and thousands marched in solidarity with de Gaulle (Larkin 1988: 326).
The subsequent election campaign overshadowed the students’ protests. As for the
workers, they had largely fallen back into line, since, according to Larkin they ‘were too
concerned with specific material demands to be bothered with groups whose millennial
expectations were remote from their interests’ (Larkin 1988: 326). Thus, as public
support for the protests decreased, so too did the demonstrations and strikes, and the last
protest ended on 25th June (Larkin 1988: 326). Following over a month of political
turmoil and instability, the French people craved stability. The Gaullists benefited from
this climate of fear and, under the new title of the Union pour la Defence de la
République (UDR), they ‘emerged with an absolute majority’ in the legislative elections
(Larkin 1988: 327).
26
Pompidou was not rewarded for the crucial work he had done in order to stabilise the
Gaullist regime during May ‘68. For de Gaulle, Pompidou’s popularity represented a
threat to his own political sovereignty, and he thus decided to replace the Prime
Minister with Couve de Murville (Larkin 1988: 328). The government’s follow-up to
the May events did not correlate with the promises made in the Grenelle agreements, for
example those regarding profit sharing and pay increases. Although workers made a
limited challenge to the government in response, internal disputes between the unions
prevented any concerted rebellion. Added to this, falling unemployment appeased many
and dissuaded them from protest (Larkin 1988: 329). Similarly, in education, some
reforms were made to the way in which universities were governed in the Faure Act
(1968), even though these reforms were hardly far-reaching and had limited impact on
the way secondary schools were run (Larkin 1988: 328).
Despite this rather disappointing mainstream political response to the events, the social
ramifications were more profound. According to Cole:
The egalitarian, anti-hierarchical ethos present in that moment has had a profound impact upon French
attitudes towards hierarchy and authority. (Cole 1998: 52)
I have already noted how hierarchies of gender and sexuality received greater public
scrutiny as a result of the women’s and gay rights movements. It is also important to
highlight the fact that the May events revealed the separation that existed between
young people and the ruling elite, in terms of social mores, politics and culture (Cole
1998: 27 and Hanley 1984: 39). This intergenerational conflict would of course also
have a profound effect on the family, which prior to the 1970s had been based on
hierarchies of power and subordination.
27
The most dramatic, albeit belated, consequence of the May events, was the resignation
of de Gaulle (Cole 1994: 27). In 1969, in an attempt to pass through reforms of the
Senate, de Gaulle proposed a complicated referendum that asked the French public to
vote simultaneously on this issue and the more popular policy of decentralisation. De
Gaulle made it clear that if the French public voted ‘no’ then he would resign. However,
the French people now felt confident that they could challenge their leader (particularly
in a climate of stability), and they delivered a majority ‘no’ vote, leading to the
President’s resignation (Larkin 1988: 330 and Cole 1998: 28). This marked the
beginning of the end for Gaullism, and the start of a new era in right-wing politics.
Georges Pompidou 1969-1974
In the elections that followed de Gaulle’s resignation, Pompidou emerged as the
strongest candidate. Whilst the left had been divided and damaged by the uprising,
Pompidou benefited from his reputation as saviour during May 1968 (Larkin 1988:
331). Standing against the Centrist candidate Alain Poher in the second ballot,
Pompidou won comfortably with 57.6% of the votes. Pompidou continued largely in the
same political vein as his predecessor, although with some exceptions. He persisted
with de Gaulle’s campaign to establish France as a great economic power, but did this
not only through European support but also in collaboration with the US and the UK
(Hanley 1984: 41 and 44). A key feature of Pompidou’s presidency was his
commitment to the development of property and transportation infrastructure. Selfevidently, such dedication to consumerism and modernisation contrasted completely
with the protests of May 1968, which had questioned capitalist ideology. Jones
summarises this contradictory mood:
28
Paris in 1969 and the early 1970s was an odd place, with the dust from May ’68 still very much in the air,
but with the government of Georges Pompidou seeming to want only to drive faster along the road to
modernisation. (Jones 2004: 525)
In keeping with this Americanised modernisation, large investments were made in
transportation, roads and big, corporate office block towers (Frears 1981: 10).
Pompidou’s desire to develop caused controversy when it was revealed that key figures
within the UDR had vested interests in building companies which had benefited
financially from his vision (Hanley 1984: 44).
Although Pompidou’s own political approach was on the whole conservative, he
initially appointed the reformist Gaullist Jacques Chaban-Delmas as his Prime Minister.
Chaban-Delmas was chosen for his ‘loyalty to de Gaulle’ and his ‘healthy respect for
parliament’s sensibilities’ (Larkin 1988: 332). Chaban-Delmas managed to implement
some reforms, for example to pay and working conditions, but was unsuccessful in
other areas, for example in his attempt to liberalise the media (Hanley 1984: 42 and 43).
If Chaban-Delmas was unable to implement his reforms it was largely as a result of the
resistance he faced from the conservative government and the President himself. As we
shall see, Chaban-Delmas’ unsuccessful attempt at reform was not unlike Giscard’s own
battles with the conservative majority during his presidency (Cole 1998: 97).
Ultimately, Chaban-Delmas (who was very popular with the public)15 was disposed of,
and was replaced by the more compliant Pierre Messmer (Knapp 1990: 142).
Pompidou’s dismissal of Chaban-Delmas (a potential political threat) was in fact
indicative of his own unstable power base. According to Cole, Pompidou was attacked
both by the left-wing opposition and ‘from within his presidential majority’ (Cole 1998:
15
See (Larkin 1988: 333).
29
29). The right had, by the early 1970s, become increasingly disunited and Pompidou
found it more and more difficult to control his government (Larkin 1988: 335). Whilst
the right floundered, the left grew in strength. The latter had gradually grown in stature
and popularity following the immediate aftermath of May 1968 when it had been left in
tatters. The left wing had begun its electoral revival with successes in the local and
municipal elections of 1970 and 1971 (Cole 1998: 31). This preliminary rehabilitation
was galvanised by the formation of the Common Electoral Programme, which united
the French Communist Party, the Socialists and other smaller left-wing parties in 1972
(Cole 1998: 31). In the face of a strengthened opposition the right were forced to fight
their legislative election campaign defensively in 1973, focusing on the possible threat
of communism if the left were voted into power (Hanley 1984: 45). Despite this
negative campaign strategy coming from the right, the left still managed to make
significant gains against the UDR (Cole 1998: 31).
The success of the left was yet another symptom of the demise of the Gaullist right. The
electoral appeal of the party was no longer what it was, and they suffered considerable
losses amongst the working classes (Knapp 1990: 142). Furthermore, as Pompidou’s
health deteriorated in 1973 and 1974, divisions within the Gaullist right grew against a
backdrop of increasing economic insecurity. By the time of his death in April 1974, a
gap was left within Gaullist politics, with no clear leader to take his place (Knapp 1990:
142).
The Election of Valéry Giscard d’Estaing
Pompidou’s death, combined with the lack of an obvious Gaullist leader, provided the
Independent Republican Valéry Giscard d’Estaing with the perfect opportunity to fill
30
the void. In order to fully understand the political culture of the 1970s we need to pause
briefly to consider the emergence of Giscard within the French the political sphere.
Giscard’s career began at the elitist ENA (École Nationale d’Administration), from
which he went on to work primarily within the Inspectorate of Finance and the Ministry
of Finance. He established a consistent political and administrative record during the
1950s and 1960s and rose to Minister of Finance and Economic Affairs in 1962 (Frears
1981: 6-7). His political career was tied to de Gaulle’s presidency (Giscard made the
move into politics in 1959, one year after de Gaulle took to office). During the early
1960s he acted as a key parliamentary ally to de Gaulle. However, in 1965 Giscard lost
his position as Minister for Finance. During the interim period, Giscard established and
led the RI (Independent Republicans), a party that provided a critical alternative to
Gaullism, before reclaiming his position as Minister for Finance in 1969. In 1967
Giscard delivered a speech that questioned the Gaullist government with the key words
‘oui-mais’ (yes, but). It was this critical approach that was instrumental in toppling de
Gaulle in 1969 (Frears 1981: 8-9). During the 1960s Giscard thus played a key role in
both the rise and fall of Gaullism.
Let us now return to 1974, the electoral campaign that followed Pompidou’s death and
the beginnings of Giscard’s presidency. Throughout the election campaign, Giscard
communicated a slick and sophisticated political message (Frears 1981: 14). Unusually,
Giscard’s presidential campaign featured his family, both as campaigners and as
electoral ‘pinups’. Raymond Depardon made a documentary of this extraordinary
campaign in his 2004 film 1974 Une partie de campagne. In Depardon’s film the
centrality of Giscard’s personal image to his presidential campaign is displayed to full
effect. We see Giscard at home with family and friends and, as the film nears its
conclusion, the cameraman sits alone with the presidential candidate as he follows the
31
exit polls on television. Within the film, this personalised image of Giscard is
complemented by the image he projects at public gatherings. At electoral rallies Giscard
is greeted like a film star – we even see him signing autographs. Depardon’s film
illustrates what Hayward describes as the cultification of the presidency that Giscard
enacted. She explains this idea as follows:
What Giscard effectively put in place was a cultification of the presidency. Charisma (de Gaulle) turned
into cult. The mythic, epic, presidential style embodied by de Gaulle was transmuted into the
personalisation of the presidency. (Hayward 1993: 216)
The public image presented by Giscard within Depardon’s film demonstrates his selfperceived superior status, which was a key factor to his political identity. Giscard
possessed a privileged education, a deep-rooted political pedigree and even boasted a
(what proved to be false) link to royal lineage. For Cole these factors ‘confirmed
Giscard in his belief that he formed part of a natural governing elite’ (Cole 1990a: 115).
Towards the end of his presidency, as we shall see, this identity began to be perceived
as monarchical or imperialist and led to widespread resentment amongst the French
public (Hanley 1984: 52).
The high profile image emanating from Giscard during his campaign was indicative of
the status that the position of president had developed during the Fifth Republic.
Following de Gaulle’s referendums in 1958 and 1962, which amended the rights and
responsibilities of the executive, the president was elevated in status and given far
greater powers (Cole 1998: 22-24), leading to what has been called the
‘presidentialisation’ of the Fifth Republic politics. In this way the figure of the President
came to dominate the political culture of the Fifth Republic, (according to Cole) ‘by
subjecting the president to direct election, de Gaulle succeeded in politicising the
32
presidency’ (Cole 1998: 24). The centrality of television (seen in Depardon’s film) to
the 1974 election campaign illustrates this phenomenon. Hayward suggests that
television ‘has played a major role in the legitimisation of what has come to be termed
“presidentialism”’ (Hayward 1990: 25). She argues the following:
Giscard used television first to mediatise his person […]in terms of mediation, state ideology was
subsumed to the individual, and television – in this second stage of its political evolution – played a vital
role in the personalisation of presidentialism. (Hayward 1990: 25-6)
The manipulation of television was key to Giscard’s success. It allowed him to create a
presidential persona that (at least in the short term) compensated for his inadequacies
(e.g. a past which did not have the historic credentials that de Gaulle had)16. Moreover,
it set him apart from his main competitor, Mitterrand. Unlike Giscard, Mitterrand was
unable to master television and was made to look flustered and unprepared in
comparison with Giscard (Hayward 1990: 26).
The other key factor in Giscard’s successful election was his collaboration with Jacques
Chirac. Chirac realised that Chaban-Delmas would have little success as a presidential
candidate given the financial scandal associated with the former Prime Minister in 1972
(Hanley 1984: 45). He thus transferred his support to the Independent Republican in
order to create the best long-term political situation for himself (Knapp 1990: 143). In
order to assure Giscard’s success, Chirac brought with him 43 Gaullist deputies who
also doubted Chaban-Delmas’ chances (Cole 1990a: 5). Chirac’s rebellion had
profound consequences for Gaullism in the 1970s. According to Cole, Chaban-Delmas’
16
Hayward discusses this in her essay on television and political culture (Hayward 1990: 25-6).
33
eventual defeat ‘rang the death knell of resistance Gaullism’ (Cole 1998: 31).17
Gaullism only began to recover towards the end of the 1970s when Chirac took over the
UDR and renamed it the RPR (Rassemblement pour la République).
Giscard’s win was by no means decisive - he claimed only 50.7% of the votes in the
second ballot next to Mitterrand. This marginal victory foreshadowed the dominant role
the non-communist left would play in opposition during Giscard’s presidency (Cole
1994: 30). Mitterrand’s dominance of the left during the 1970s (often at the expense of
the PCF) offers a further demonstration of how the presidential figure had come to
dominate French political culture. Thus, in the 1974 election campaign Mitterrand
distanced himself from some of the policies set out in the Common Electoral
Programme. And, instead of forming a close relationship with the Socialist Party
infrastructure, Mitterrand surrounded himself with ‘a network of presidential support
committees’ (Cole 1994: 30). Cole suggests that Mitterrand’s role within the left
illustrated the ‘presidential logic of the Fifth Republic’s political system, which forced
serious candidates to stand “above” party in order to develop broad appeal for the
second ballot’ (Cole 1994: 30). Thus, in the campaigns of both Mitterrand and Giscard,
evidence of the presidentialisation of French political culture was there for all to see.
Giscard’s Pseudo-Liberalism
The first years of Giscard’s presidency were characterised by reforms. However, as
Hanley has pointed out neither Giscard nor his government had track records as
reformists (Hanley 1984: 46). It is perhaps unsurprising then that many of the reforms
that Giscard and his government implemented suffered from limitations and
17
By resistance Gaullism, Cole is referring to the form of Gaullism that had emerged around the cult of
de Gaulle, the resistant hero.
34
contradictions. Moreover, his liberal reforms were counterbalanced by ‘distinctly
illiberal’ stances on other issues (Cole 1990b: 121).
In his aspirations to lead a democratic and liberal France with conservative values,
Giscard’s interpretation of liberalism can be associated with the so-called Orleanist
tradition within French political culture. Cole (1990b: 120-1)18 explains that the
‘Orleanist’ tradition describes the French liberal right. Cole argues that the ‘Orleanist’
tradition
is characterised by a commitment to moderate constitutionalism, to the rights of the individual […]. This
extends especially to the belief in the merits of free enterprise […] This is combined with cautious
acceptance of social change, allied with a respect for hierarchies based on wealth and talent. (Cole 1990b:
120-1)
The characteristics outlined by Cole above can all be associated with Giscard and his
interpretation of liberalism. In order to nuance this interpretation in more detail I shall
use the term pseudo-liberal. Pseudo-liberal describes the inherently contradictory nature
of Giscard’s take on liberalism. Firstly, a distinction needs to be drawn here between the
English word liberal and the polyvalent French word libéral. In its specifically French
context, the word libéral has two principal connotations that express Giscard’s
dichotomized approach.19 The first refers to a society that favours individual liberties
and the liberalisation of society. This definition is linked to the French notion of the
république (republic) and therefore speaks to the concepts of liberty and equality.
However, the term, in this contextual meaning, also connects with a key characteristic
18
Cole makes this reference to the Orleanist tradition in his discussion of the ideologies of UDF (The
Union of French Democracy), which was established by Giscard d’Estaing in 1977. The Orleanist
tradition can however also be applied to Giscard d’Estaing’s own political identity. I shall discuss the
UDF in greater detail later in this chapter.
19
This is a distinction that Jeancolas makes in order to pinpoint the contradictory nature of La France
giscardienne (Giscardian France) (Jeancolas 1977: 240).
35
of the ‘Orléanist’ tradition: the ‘cautious acceptance of social change’. As this section
will go on to explore, Giscard’s period in government can certainly be linked to this
first meaning of libéral in its implementation of reforms.
That being said, the other side to the President’s libéralisme complicates this first
interpretation. Contrary to the first meaning, in its second context, libéral refers to
economies that encourage competition (free marketeerism). This second conservative
manifestation of libéral refers to American style capitalism, and favours the success of
individuals rather than society as a whole. Although Giscard ostensibly sought equality
in France, above all, he aimed to reassert France as an international competitor (Frears
128-129: 1981).
Within the context of the global recession that hit in 1973, the two facets of Giscard’s
liberalism quickly began to conflict with one another. Due in part to the economic
constraints of the decade, and Giscard’s commitment to the economic strength of the
nation, the president was unable to implement his desired reforms (particularly towards
the end of the 1970s).
According to Frears, the three most notable beneficiaries of Giscard’s reforms were
women, the media and young people (Frears 1981: 150). In the second ballot the 1974
Presidential election, Giscard received 8% more of the female vote than Mitterrand.
This leads us to speculate that expectations for Giscard to deliver on policies relating to
women were high (Laubier 1990: 141). I have already noted that in May 1968 feminist
campaigns groups were given an effective platform to voice their protests. During the
1950s, and particularly the late 1960s, the Family Planning Movement had made
significant steps towards the liberalisation of contraception. However, it was not until
36
the 1970s that major changes began to occur (Laubier 1990: 70). Despite this, it is
important to reiterate that the movement did not occur simply as a side effect of the
May events (Laubier 1990: 70). Instead, Claire Laubier argues that
The ‘new’ women’s movement arose out of the pervading climate of dissatisfaction and
antiauthoritarianism of May 1968, but was also largely due to conflict with, and protest against the
masculine revolutionary ethic. (Laubier 1990: 70)
Laubier’s observation reveals that women campaigners realised that a separate
movement, away form those groups associated with the May events, was needed if their
rights were to be defended properly. Thus, in 1970 the MLF (Mouvement de Libération
des Femmes) declared itself in order to articulate the collective identity of a growing
number of women’s groups (Laubier 1990: 70). Whilst the MLF still conducted
practical campaigns and protests on issues such as abortion and divorce, they and their
associates were also strongly influenced by theoretical debate (Laubier 1990: 71).20 As a
result of the various theoretical and practical approaches adopted by feminists during
the 1970s, divisions and confrontations occurred between different factions. The
conflict between these factions reached crisis point at the end of the 1970s and the
beginning of the 1980s. Allwood explains below this period of change and loss:
The period around 1978-1981 was one of change, uncertainty and reflection for the women’s movement
in France. […] the effects of the economic crisis were worsening and this bought a move from collective
struggle to individualism, a search for security and a rising anti-feminism. (Allwood 1998: 30)
At the beginning of his presidency Giscard’s apparent commitment to the demands of
these groups was backed by popular opinion and was borne out in the changes he
20
See Marks and de Courtivron (1981: 3-38:) for an introduction to the development of French
feminisms.
37
oversaw to health, divorce and the working conditions of women. As a result of these
changes, the structures of family and marriage underwent great change during the
1970s. Firstly, in terms of health, the processes of contraception and abortion were
reformed. In 1974 contraception became refundable by social security. Feminists had
campaigned for some time on this issue, arguing that contraception should not be the
privilege of the rich (Laubier 1990: 70, 74 and 149). During the early 1970s, a series of
high-profile campaigns involving public figures such as Catherine Deneuve21 raised
awareness on the issue of abortion. In 1973 Charles Belmont and Marielle Issartel
released their pro-abortion film Histoire d’A. Hayward summarises the impact that this
seminal film had:
The film was banned by the censorship commission, but over 200,000 spectators saw it clandestinely
which makes it one of the most seen militant films of this period. (Hayward 1993: 242).
In response to these high profile campaigns and events, abortion law was liberalised
under Giscard. In 1975, Simone Veil, the newly appointed Minister for Health,
implemented the eponymous act that permitted abortion ‘within the first ten weeks of
pregnancy’ (Larkin 1988: 341). However, Veil was left isolated by the Prime Minister
Jacques Chirac (who was keeping his distance from controversy) and was forced to see
the law through virtually single-handedly.22
The process of divorce was liberalised in 1975 when a law was introduced that
increased the ease with which either party could file for divorce (Segalen 2000: 137).
The law also allowed the wife to live away from her husband for the first time, if for
Catherine Deneuve’s own involvement in pro-abortion campaigns will be discussed in Chapter 4.
See the illuminating film Avortement (Abortion) (Bernard George, 2002) for an in depth look at the
events which led to the legalisation of abortion.
21
22
38
example her job required it (Laubier 1990: 146-7)23. Another liberalisation that this
1975 law allowed was the decriminalisation of infidelity (prior to this law the woman
could be fined or even imprisoned if adultery was committed, the man would only be
fined) (Laubier 1990: 147). This had obvious consequences for the traditional structure
of the heterosexual couple and the family. As a result of this law, and changing attitudes
towards relationships, the divorce rate in France doubled during the 1970s (Segalen
2000: 138)24. Not only did divorce increase, but the number of couples rejecting
marriage increased, and between 1975 and 1985 the marriage rate dropped by 30%
(Laubier 1990: 147). Concomitantly, the number of couples cohabitating increased
between 1969 and 1985 by 49% (Laubier 1990: 147). Changes to divorce law,
combined with evolving social mores, put pressure on the heterosexual imperative
within society and within the family.
The changing working practices of women also had an effect on the configuration of
gender and the family during the 1970s. From 1968 onwards the number of French
women entering the workplace increased steadily (Laubier 1990: 113).25 During his
presidency Giscard attempted to implement reforms which would facilitate woman’s
entrance to the workplace, for example he increased maternity leave and instituted
legislation regarding equal pay (Frears 1981: 151). However, as with many of his
reforms, these were often difficult to implement (Laubier 1990: 114). Added to this,
women were also more likely to suffer from the rise in unemployment that occurred
during the 1970s as a result of the oil crisis – thus restricting their entrance into the
workplace and repositioning them within the domestic space (Laubier 1990: 116).
If there were children, however, ‘the place of the children [constituted] the place of abode’ (Laubier
1990: 147).
24
Laubier points out that the increase had even begun a few years prior to the 1975 law (1990: 149)
25
This is particularly striking given that, between 1946 and 1967, the number of women working had
actually been progressively falling (Laubier 1990: 119).
23
39
In all of this we can begin to see that, despite Giscard’s claim that he had ‘inserted the
French woman into the life of our society’ (Larkin 1988: 341), this is not wholly
representative of his position regarding women’s lives. Further evidence can be found
within the Giscardian regime to support this argument. Firstly, the appointment of the
journalist Françoise Giroud as le Secrétariat à la Condition Féminine proved to be
tokenistic. Giroud was given no budget to implement reforms and any proposals she
made were seen as merely recommendations to the Prime Minister. Thus, when in 1976
Giroud put forward her Projet Pour les Femmes (Project for Women), none of her
suggestions were acted upon. Giroud’s position was soon dissolved and the
government’s commitment to women’s issues was increasingly downscaled (Duchen
1985: 127-8).
The second factor that complicates Giscard’s dubious claim was his failure to back the
changes to women’s lives with sufficient finance. Where changes to the lives of French
women did occur, they did not involve ‘major expenditure’ (Larkin 1988: 341)26. This
failure points to the fact that, rather than displaying dedicated liberalism in the first
sense of the word, as a libéral, Giscard’s methods refer back to the word’s second
meaning, the one grounded in the economy and the forces of the market. Thus, although
the president proclaimed his desire to reform French society, his actions were held back
by his inherent conservatism, both social and economic (Larkin 1988: 337). Arguably,
by failing properly to invest financially in women’s lives, Giscard in fact excluded
French women from the ‘life of French society’.
Marks and de Courtivron (1981: 29) offer us the final argument that can be used to
challenge Giscard’s commitment to the feminist cause. They argue that the changes
Frears has argued that some of the changes implemented by Giscard D’Estaing were ‘liberal windowdressing or what feminists call “tokenism”’ (Frears 1981: 151).
26
40
over which Giscard presided would never have been implemented without the
instigation of reformist feminists and the Minister for Health, Simone Veil, which
therefore suggests that these reforms were inevitable (Marks and de Courtivron 1981:
29). Despite popular support for these measures, backing within parliament for reform
was inconsistent (Larkin 1988: 342). Both the divorce and abortion laws met with
opposition from within the UDF and from amongst the Gaullists (Frears 1981: 152).
Thus, instead of drawing on support from his party to pass these liberalising laws,
Giscard had to rely on votes from the left-wing opposition, or utilise ‘restrictive articles
of the 1958 constitution designed to favour the executive over parliament’ (Cole 1998:
32 and 33). Ultimately, Giscard was made to pay for his government’s inconsistent
commitment to the lives of women when the MLF, in the 1981 presidential elections,
called for women to vote Mitterrand (Duchen 1985: 125).
As to the second principle site of reformation during Giscard’s presidency, the media,
from the outset of his presidency, Giscard attempted to liberalise the media, both in
terms of its censorship and its infrastructure. The president quickly set about
dismantling the ORTF (Office de Radiodiffusion-Télévision Française)27, which had
been beset with problems during its ten-year existence. It also symbolised the state
control exercised by the Gaullist regime. Thus, by shedding this dominating piece of
state machinery Giscard not only lived out some of the liberalising promises of his
election campaign, but also laid to rest one of the relics of Gaullism (Kuhn 1995: 146147). During his presidency the idea of introducing a commercial television channel to
compete with the state channel was supported by many of Giscard’s close allies.
However, the president himself was reluctant to pursue such ambitions for the following
reasons:
27
The ORTF is the equivalent of the BBC (Kuhn 1995: 151).
41
[T]he president was well aware that government control of news output would be facilitated in a system
where the state had monopoly of ownership. […]A commercial channel might also destabilize the
ORTF’s finances, since the state corporation was now heavily dependent on advertising as an additional
income to the licence fee. (Kuhn 1995: 148)
He also lacked the required political support within the National Assembly in order to
push controversial policy through. Consequently, a compromise was found and the
ORTF was broken up into to subsidiaries (Kuhn 1995: 149). The Ministry of
Information was abolished. In so doing, Giscard felt he could lay claim to handing
power over news to the individual broadcasting units (Kuhn 1995: 151). However, the
appointed heads of these units were nearly all government allies (there were no
representatives from the left-wing), as were the journalists employed to work for the
channels (Kuhn 1995: 152).
Presidential and governmental intervention in the state-controlled media was rife, as it
was elsewhere during Giscard’s presidency (as I shall go on to demonstrate). This
interventionism in the media became more pronounced from 1976 onwards. Following
Prime Minister Chirac’s resignation (which came as a result of Giscard’s persistent
interferences)28 and the subsequent deterioration of relations between the Gaullists and
the Giscardiens, news coverage grew increasingly favourable towards the supporters of
the president (Kuhn 1995: 156). When the president was interviewed, journalists were
clearly reluctant to ask any questions relating to controversial issues (to do so might
cost them their jobs).29 During the late 1970s, journalists accused the government of
pressurising them into delivering pro-Giscard news coverage, and, during the 1981
28
See (Knapp 1990: 144-146)
Examples of this were ‘France’s commitment to nuclear power and the Bokassa diamonds scandal’
(Kuhn 1995: 159). The latter issue will be discussed later in this chapter.
29
42
presidential campaign, opposition parties vociferously complained about unfair
distribution of allocated news minutes in the government’s favour (Kuhn 1995: 160-1).
As with television, other aspects of the media also saw change and apparent
liberalisation during the presidency of Giscard. Two months after his election, Giscard
announced that ‘Public liberties are and will be scrupulously respected: […] no more
censorship – neither in prisons nor in cinemas’ (Jeancolas 1978: 44) and (Hayward
1993: 244)30. I shall now explain what this liberalisation of censorship meant for the
cinema. One of the principal implications of the liberalisation of censorship was the
increase in the production of pornographic film and its subsequent distribution and
consumption in mainstream viewing space (such as the Champs Elysées) (Jeancolas
1978: 44). The liberalisation of censorship and the subsequent proliferation of
pornography displayed the paradoxical nature of Giscard presidency, his bipartite
liberalism and his fulfilment of the tradition of Orléanist politics. On the one hand it
stood as testament to his commitment to individual liberties. On the other, pornography
was and still is ultimately a commercial product. It is a means of making money. As
Jeancolas put it : ‘it’s clear: porn is destined to make money’ (Jeancolas 1978: 253).
Individual liberty aside, the outcome also evidences the other side to the libéral coin:
pornography as a consumerist practice. But further still, in keeping with Giscard’s
conservatism, it simultaneously commercialises and polices desire. This process is
explained by Hayward. She argues that pornography is concomitant with ‘a society that
is intent on frenetic consumption’, and that it superficially answers to the desires of the
dissatisfied (Hayward 1993: 245). As for pornography’s function as a policing of desire,
because its images are so conservative in their representation of women and their
sexuality in general, allowing for the free flow of these films, does, Hayward suggests,
In the same statement Giscard d’Estaing also announced his intention to abolish phone tapping, a
measure which had been extremely controversial.
30
43
indicate a backlash against the female agency, only just promoted by the women’s
movement:
Pornography in this regard and especially in its proliferation can be read as a phallocratic response to the
possible loss not just of the ‘phallic’ (language, machismo, etc.) but also the female object of desire
(woman no longer positionable/ fethishisable by the male gaze). (Hayward 1993: 245).
In terms of the freedom of the body, this could be read as a contained or imprisoned
form of liberalism. For women, whose sexuality was in the process of a new, legalised
form of liberalisation, thanks to the feminist movement, pornography was ‘a form of
policing desire, of making women conform to a specifically phallic conception of them’
(Hayward 1993: 245). As we shall see in future chapters, this means of undermining
female agency is clearly at work in more mainstream cinema with stars such as
Deneuve and Annie Girardot, two 1970s French women actors whose films I shall be
discussing.
Just as Giscard sought to ‘[insert] the woman into French society’, he similarly aimed to
assert the political agency of France’s younger citizens who, like women, had become
more visible since May 1968. One of his first moves was to lower the voting age to 18.
Like many of Giscard’s changes, the lowering of the voting age was not a radical move.
Instead it merely saw France brought into line with other Western democracies (Larkin
1988: 339). This proved to be a dangerous move however when, as predicted for the
1981 presidentials, the majority of the youth vote went to Mitterrand and the left
(Larkin 1988: 339).
Once again responding to the demands of the young campaigners of May 1968, Giscard
also sought to reform the education system, and to create a system that resembled the
44
English comprehensive school. The principle behind these reforms was linked to
Giscard’s desire for a unified France propelled by the individual. To this end, the
system under Giscard gave equal access but favoured privileged bright and gifted
students. The creation of this new system also involved the inception of the certificat
d’aptitude professionelle (the certificate of professional aptitude), which sought to
revalorise manual work through education. Through these changes, it was hoped that
the new school system would be adapted to the modern market. This was, however, an
unpopular move amongst teachers (Hanley 1984: 51). The certificat d’aptitude
professionelle allowed students to take practical courses that would prepare them for
largely manual occupations. In the end, this system promoted career pathways that were
orientated by class, as most of these students came from working-class backgrounds.
The system was thus divisive and not the socially cohesive model that Giscard had
intended (Frears 1981: 153 and 155).
These measures were also imbued with Giscard’s overriding belief in the importance of
economic competition (mentioned in relation to his policies aimed at women). In
accordance with Giscard’s économie libérale, the President’s reasoning was that
without an enfranchised31 manual work force France would be unable to compete on an
international scale (Frears 1981: 155). Thus, by attempting to prepare pupils and
workers as productive members of the French economy Giscard principally adhered to
his beliefs in economic liberalism.
Within higher education the so-called social liberalism of Giscard was also absent,
particularly post 1976 when Alice Saunier Séité was appointed Minister for Education.
The new minister put greater pressure on young lecturers and endeavoured to censor the
Giscard D’Estaing’s social reform involved a revalorisation du travail manuel or an ‘upgrading of
manual work’ (Frears 1981: 155).
31
45
type of degrees that were offered – trying to discard those that she deemed ‘irrelevant’.
Added to this she controversially attempted to reverse certain aspects of the post-68
Faure act that had carried out a series of reforms to higher education (Hanley 1984: 51).
Looking across these three areas (women, the media and youth) we see that there were
inherent contradictions to many of Giscard’s liberalising policies, contradictions that
were often born out of his conflicted interpretation of liberalism. We also recall Cole’s
suggestion that not only were Giscard’s liberal policies flawed, they were also
counterbalanced by ‘distinctly illiberal’ stances on other issues (Cole 1990b: 121). Cole
argues that in the areas of ‘immigration, […] state-security [and] civil and judicial
rights’ Giscard’s policies were often repressive. Firstly, his policies regarding
immigration came as a response to rising unemployment following the oil crisis of
1973. The policies that he put forward included regroupement familial (family
regrouping)32 and voluntary repatriation which involved giving cash payouts to
immigrants willing to return to their home country (Cole 1998: 222 and Hanley 1984:
50). Cole has suggested that these policies did not recognise or respect the considerable
input the immigrants had made into France’s economic growth during the 1960s (Cole
1998: 222).
In the management of state security and civil and judicial rights, Giscard’s Ministry for
the Interior also administered tough and at times repressive policies. Hanley summarises
the situation as follows:
Giscard’s first interior minister, M.Poniatowski, took from the first a tough line: his use of police dogs to
clear strikers out of occupied workplaces and his media denunciations of ‘soft’ magistrates never did
blend particularly well with the liberal tones of his leader. The independence of judges was […]
32
This policy meant that families were no longer able to come to France to join immigrants workers.
46
weakened by a series of disciplinary measures against magistrates who had stood up visibly to pressure
from above. At the end of the septennate justice minister A. Peyrefitte, responding to a widespread
psychosis about law and order which the government had in no small measure helped to create, would
present the bill Security and freedom, which sharply increased repressive powers. (Hanley 1984: 50)
We see from Hanley’s observations that the policies employed by the Interior Ministry
were not in keeping with Giscard proclaimed desire to form an advanced liberal society.
In his book La Démocratie française (The French Democracy)(1976), Giscard
suggested that to attain a liberal and democratic society there must be social justice and
adequate protection of civil and political liberties (Cole 1990b: 121). The argument put
forward in Giscard’s book is clearly undermined by the policies administered by the
Ministry for the Interior during his presidency.
There is thus clear evidence that Giscard’s policies did not necessarily adhere to his
publicly spoken ambitions for a democratic society. Giscard’s own presidential style
also betrayed his liberal pretensions. Throughout his presidency, Giscard’s style of
government could be described as interventionist. According to Hanley, this is a
characteristic of all Fifth Republic presidents but one which Giscard’s political style
accentuates to its fullest degree (Hanley 1984: 46). Although Giscard’s never employed
extreme presidential powers (‘such as ordinances, referenda or special powers which
enabled government to bypass parliament’ (Hanley 1984: 47)), he did exercise a huge
control over his ministers and even his Prime Minister. According to Knapp, Giscard
constantly undermined Chirac whilst he was Prime Minister, seeing him as a future
opponent for the presidency (Knapp 1990: 144). Giscard’s interventions took the
following forms: his prime ministers were requested to sign undated resignation letters
upon taking office and were also sent six-monthly directives on government policy. By
intervening in this way, Giscard involved himself in the areas that had previously been
47
the responsibility of government ministers (Cole 1998: 78). Giscard was also infamous
for his personal interventions in smaller, often superficial matters such as the uniforms
of women traffic wardens, the ‘type of trees to be planted in the Place des Vosges’ and
the decision to turn a former railway station into what is now the Musée d’Orsay
(Wright 1989: 67-68).
Giscard: A President in Lack
For Cole the interventions made by Giscard compensated for his actual lack of authority
and political insecurity:
Giscard, possessed neither a strong majoritarian party support nor a political personality of historic
proportions. President Giscard compensated for his political weakness by an enhanced presidential
interventionism, and an attempt to move towards a more overt presidential interpretation of the regime.
(Cole 1998: 77)
Giscard’s isolation and insecurity became more pronounced towards the end of the
1970s. The president’s increased vulnerability was evidenced not only by his
exaggerated interventionism, but also by the creation of the UDF in 1978. In his
election as president, Giscard ‘had not had to rely on a political party’ and thus ‘initially
made little concerted effort to organise a disciplined presidential party’ (Cole 1998:
158). For reasons that shall be developed shortly, Giscard found himself in need of
greater political support by 1978, and the UDF was created in response. The UDF had
been formed at short notice in 1978 as a means of providing Giscard electoral support in
order to fight off the RPR and the Left-wing coalition. It was comprised of a number of
48
centre parties including Giscard’s own Republican Party33 (Cole 1998: 158). However,
although the party would go on to have some success in legislative elections it was a
‘failed presidential party’ (Cole 1998: 158) – as 1981 proved. This failure came as a
result of party divisions and the absence of any kind of grass roots support (Cole 1990b:
109).
Giscard’s vulnerability, and the subsequent creation of the UDF as a response, grew out
of a number of interrelated factors. Firstly, the last years of Giscard’s presidency were
marred by allegations of corruption. In 1979 Le Canard enchainé34 revealed that whilst
Giscard was the Finance Minister he accepted gifts of diamonds from General Bokassa,
the former emperor of the Central African Republic (who had been accused of crimes
against humanity) (Wauthier 1995: 291). Although the incident was overtly criticised by
the printed press, the televised media remained at a discrete distance from the affair
(Kuhn 1995: 159). This of course serves as a reminder not only of Giscard’s vulnerable
political state but also of how television and radio remained under the controlling
influence of the state during his presidency.
The second key factor, which guaranteed Giscard’s vulnerability at this stage in his
presidency, was the continued rise in unemployment. Towards the end of the 1970s it
had become clear that the electorate did not believe that the government had handled the
economy effectively (Wright 1984: 10). The two groups to be most significantly
effected by unemployment were young people and women. Notably, these were two
groups whose votes swung to Mitterrand in 1981.
33
The Republican Party was formally known as the Independent Republicans. They re-launched as the
RP in 1977 in an (unsuccessful) ‘attempt to create a disciplined majority’ (Cole 1998: 160).
34
A satirical French newspaper.
49
The third key reason for Giscard’s politically weakened position was that from 1976
onwards, the Gaullist right began to rehabilitate itself as a political power. When Chirac
resigned as Prime Minister in 1976 he was able to turn his attention to his ambitions to
lead the Gaullist right and ultimately to become president (Cole 1990a: 5). Chirac thus
took over the UDR in 1976, successfully fighting off the old guard of Gaullist politics.
He renamed the party the RPR (Rassemblement pour la république) and set a new
agenda for the right (Knapp 1990: 144). During the early to mid 1970s, the Gaullist
right had continually suffered in elections (both presidential and legislative). De Gaulle
had left a palpable gap with no obvious leader to take his place. By the end of the
1970s, Chirac began to take on the role of leader, a task he had been unable to do in the
direct aftermath of Pompidou’s death due to a lack of support (Knapp 1990: 143 and
Cole 1998: 154).
By re-unifying themselves the Gaullist party was able to fend off Giscard’s UDF in the
legislative elections of 1978 (Cole 1990a: 6). Drawing on their newfound strength, the
Gaullists managed to act as a deeply critical opposition to Giscard and the UDF,
challenging Giscard and his Prime Minister Raymond Barre on key issues. The most
obvious example was the budget of 1979, which the RPR voted against. In response to
the RPR’s rebellion ‘Barre invoked article 49-3 of the Constitution and dared them to
vote a motion of censure – knowing that Chirac could not afford to take the blame for
overthrowing the government’ (Knapp 1990: 145). It has been argued that with this
opposition it was impossible for Giscard to implement his reforms, which would in part
explain the downturn in liberalising policies towards the end of his presidency.
However, as I have shown in our earlier discussion of those reforms that the
government did institute, a lack of parliamentary support was not the only factor that
held back Giscard’s vision for an advanced liberal society. As Frears has argued, despite
50
the UDF’s democratic intentions, this disparate political party in fact embodied many
Gaullist traits (Frears 1981: 53-58).
The fourth factor, which produced this sense of political insecurity for Giscard, was the
rise of the Socialist Party. Prior to May 1968 the Socialist Party had appeared ageing
and out of date. Following a period of stagnation during the first ten years of the Fifth
Republic, during which time they were hampered by their associations with the failed
Fourth Republic (Wright 1989: 221), the non-communist left began to make a
considerable recovery at the beginning of the 1970s (Cole 1998: 163). Initially, the
Socialists suffered in the immediate aftermath of May 1968, having been ‘tainted with
soixante-huitard [1968] activism’ (Cole 1998: 30). However, during the 1970s, they
underwent a process of renewal and rejuvenation and actually began to benefit from this
association. The Socialist Party developed into a catchall party that articulated ‘the
concerns of new social movements and themes given expression in May 1968’ (Cole
1998: 164). By 1977 more than half of the delegates attending the Socialist Party’s
annual congress were less than 40 years old, and three quarters of all members had not
been a member prior to 1969 (Wright 1989: 225).
The evolving demographic of the Socialist membership during the 1970s suggests that
the party increasingly represented the opinions and beliefs of young people. This played
a crucial role in their election in 1981 for two reasons. Firstly, one of the key problems
for Giscard during his presidency was unemployment, an issue felt most acutely by
young people and women. Secondly, the development of a new electoral group as a
result of the voting age being dropped to 18. Thus, by extending their appeal to this
group, the Socialists gave political hope and leadership to a group of people who were
suffering economically and socially, and whose electoral alliance was as yet open to
51
determination. This of course proved to be a winning combination for Mitterrand in
1981.
During the 1970s, the Socialist Party had, on the whole, kept in-step with public
opinion. For example, whilst the centre right majority had resisted changes to abortion
and divorce laws, the left wing parties leant their support to these popular reforms,
ensuring their survival (Larkin 1988: 342). Moreover, whilst May 1968 had initially
damaged the Socialist Party’s reputation, by the 1970s they began to give a mainstream
political voice to some of the social movements that had gained public prominence from
the events:
Mitterrand’s Socialist Party came to articulate the demands of many new social movements arising in the
1960s and 1970s. New social movement activists figured prominently among the influx of new party
members. (Cole 1998: 164)
Crucially, their appeal also widened to attract the new social groups that had emerged
during the 1960s and 1970s as a result of changes to, amongst other things, the
workplace. During the 1960s the middle-class had expanded. This occurred for a
number of reasons. Firstly, the employment sector had changed, and now included a
number of new professional groups with new social and economic needs. These are
outlined below by Cole and included:
new tertiary sector workers (especially in the public sector), […]new and expanded professions (teaching,
social work), […] the managerial strata whose ranks had increased dramatically in the post-war period.
(Cole 1998: 164)
A second factor played in this demographic change. As a result of changes that took
place in the 1960s, greater access to education was promoted by raising the school
52
leaving age to 16, leading to an increase in social mobility during the 1970s (Hayward
1993: 213-214). According to Mendras (1994: 60), as a result of these changes, in the
1960s definitions of bourgeois and proletariat culture began to blur, and by the
following decade more and more workers began to identify themselves as middle-class.
The Socialist Party moved with these demographic changes and attracted these new
class groups:
On a sociological level, the new French Socialist Party of the 1970s appeared to be a genuinely interclass
party, repeating a feat achieved previously only by the Gaullists in the 1960s. (Cole 1998: 164)
The demographic changes that benefited the Socialist Party in terms of electoral support
had the opposite effect on the PCF (French Communist Party). Unlike the Socialist
Party, the PCF failed to renew itself and change with the times (Raymond 1990: 44).
From the 1960s onwards the working class, who were traditionally the mainstay of PCF
party membership, underwent significant change. As I have noted above, more and
more workers began to identify themselves as middle-class during the 1970s, thus
changing the traditional cultural and socio-political identity of the working class.
Raymond explains this process in relation to PCF party membership:
Conurbations in which the party was entrenched were also the centres of population which were among
the most affected by the social changes which began to manifest themselves clearly in the 1960s: changes
in the patterns of employment; population flows and the consequences for traditional working-class areas;
the growth of a post-industrial society and its impact on traditional working-class allegiances. (Raymond
1990: 43-44)
These demographic changes had negative consequences for the PCF membership. One
of the related demographic factors to occur in relation to the breakdown in party
membership was the concurrent rise in individualism seen in France during the 1970s.
53
During the 1950s the PCF had acted as a dynamic counter-community that provided its
membership with a supportive and active social infrastructure (Cole 1998: 52). With the
demographic changes listed above came an increased individualism and a breaking
down of this positive counter-community. And its problems did not stop with
demographic change. The PCF, in contrast with the non-communist left, did not benefit
from the ‘Common Electoral Programme’ formed in 1972. Raymond explains that not
only were ‘the Communists […] to find themselves ideologically outsmarted and
tactically wrong-footed by their Socialist allies’ they also found themselves in ‘the
position of being constantly forced to react to the successful initiatives of the PS instead
of pre-empting PS policy initiatives of its own’ (Raymond 1990: 48-49). The public
image of the PCF was also damaged in the 1970s by its relationship with the Soviet
Union. It failed to sufficiently criticise the USSR for its widely condemned labour
camps and rather unconvincingly proclaimed itself to be ‘Eurocommunist’ in order to
win back public favour (Cole 1998: 174).
Finally, the PCF failed to adapt itself to the new political culture of the Fifth Republic.
It rejected presidentialism, perceiving it to be monarchical and therefore contrary to
communist ideology (Wright 1989: 240). Moreover, the PCF was also unsuccessful in
adapting itself to the new forms of political language and communication of the 1970s.
Whilst Giscard, and increasingly Mitterrand were hugely aware of the benefits of
television and the importance of public image, the PCF leader George Marchais did not
pursue these changes in political delivery (Hayward 1990: 28) and (Wright 1989: 240).
1981: A political watershed
54
By 1981 the French electorate was seeking political change. Although Giscard was
initially perceived to be the favourite for the leadership (Gaffney 1990: 61), the failures
and frustrations of the final years of his presidency came home to roost during the
electoral campaign. The economy, exacerbated by a second hike in oil prices, was still
in a precarious position, despite Barre’s confidence (Hanley 1984: 49), and 1980 proved
to be ‘France’s worse economic year since 1975’ (Larkin 1988: 354). Unemployment
had reached un-chartered heights and the homelessness had also risen concurrently
(Thomas 1999: 128). Added to this, the public had become increasingly alienated by the
political identity of Giscard. Cole describes the Giscard’s pre-election political image in
the following way:
the dissemination of the image of the unresponsive, secretive and arrogant monarch contributed to the
image of decadence, scandal and impetuosity which surrounded the end of his presidency. (Cole 1998:
78)
This difficult image, combined with his rather lacklustre campaign, sealed Giscard’s
defeat and handed Mitterrand victory (Gaffney 1990: 65)35. The other key factor in
Giscard’s defeat was his bitter rivalry with Chirac. The former Prime Minister also
stood in the 1981 election and fared far better than the other Gaullist candidates. He
was, however, defeated by Giscard in the first ballot. The campaign had featured many
personal attacks between the two centre-right candidates, and Chirac refused to
unreservedly rally the Gaullist vote behind Giscard in the second ballot (Wright 1989:
204-5). Consequently, just as Chirac had assured Giscard’s presidency in 1974, he also
assured his successful removal in 1981.
35
See also (Cole 1998: 34).
55
As for the PCF, they were a key factor in the successful election of a left-wing president
in 1981. Many PCF voters realised that Marchais was unlikely to challenge the
rightwing status quo. A vote for Mitterrand could however ensure the first victory for a
left-wing candidate during the Fifth Republic. Consequently, many normally loyal PCF
voters tactically supported Mitterrand (Macshane 1982: 230). The subsequent landslide
victory of the Socialists in the legislative elections of 1981 meant that Mitterrand and
his government did not have to rely upon the PCF to win control from the right wing
parties (Hanley 1984: 57). Four posts were given to PCF ministers. However, these
positions were minor, which of course limited the party’s power (Hanley 1984: 58).
Mitterrand’s presidency: 1981-1982
The first year of Mitterrand’s presidency was marked by radical reforms. These
included mass nationalisations, the abolition of the death penalty, attempts to curb
unemployment and policies which would redistribute wealth (Ross 1987: 6-12).
However, the Socialists were divided in their political ambitions, some desiring more
radical change than others. Moreover, Mitterrand and his government were politically
inexperienced, having been out of power for so long (Ross 1987: 9). Consequently, they
were ill-equipped to deal with the severity of the ensuing socio-economic crisis.
Mitterrand and his government had inherited the economic problems of Giscard’s
presidency, including mass unemployment, which continued to rise (Ross 1987: 6). As
a result of these constraints, by mid-1982 the Socialists were forced to slow down their
program for reform, and by 1984 reverse some of their economic reforms (Cole 1998:
36).
56
By mid-1982 many people began to feel let down by the government. Although the PCF
had joined forces with the PS in June 1981, they strongly objected to the austerity
measures brought in by the Socialists in 1982 (Raymond 1990: 42). The PCF electorate
also felt betrayed by the increasingly watered down policies of Mitterrand. The failure
of the Socialists to capitalise on their victory and create real social change has been
interpreted by some as a reflection of the failure of those who had participated in May
1968 to deliver on the promise of their protests. Cole suggests that ‘The crisis
experienced by governmental socialism during the 1980s was in part also the crisis of
ideals inspired by May 1968’ (Cole 1998: 28).
It was within this atmosphere of pessimism, failed promises and socio-economic
insecurity that Patrick Dewaere, our star body at the heart of this thesis study,
committed suicide (in the summer of 1982). This thesis will in no way suggest that
Dewaere’s decision to take his own life was linked to the Nation’s contemporaneous
traumas. However, in the third chapter of this chapter, which provides a critical
biography of the actor’s life, I shall demonstrate that the atmosphere of the time
unquestionably dictated the mood of his last films, which did, have a negative impact on
the actor’s life. In the next chapter I shall build on the socio-political context provided
here, by outlining the theoretical contexts that shall frame my analytical approach to
Dewaere’s gendered body.
57
Chapter Two
Theoretical Contexts
58
Chapter Two
Theoretical Contexts
The purpose of this chapter is to provide a theoretical framework with which to analyse
Patrick Dewaere’s star body. In the previous chapter I addressed the socio-economic
factors that by and large moulded the construction of national identity during the
presidency of Giscard d’Estaing (1974-1981). We saw how this period was one of
considerable contradictions in relation to Giscard’s policies and their implementation.
We noted how, for the younger generation in particular, this period was fraught in a
number of explicit ways – particularly within the socio-economic domain. Finally, we
demonstrated how the changing climate of the times around issues of sexuality and
gender had considerable impact upon questions of identity. Dewaere’s star body both
needs to be and can be read against this period and its developments. Richard Dyer
explains that ‘stars articulate what it is to be a human being in contemporary society’
(Dyer 2004: 7). In his earlier text Stars Dyer offers us an insight into the function of
stars in relation to ideology:
[s]tar images function crucially in relation to contradictions within and between ideologies, which they
seek variously to “manage” or resolve. In exceptional cases, it has been argued that certain stars, far form
managing contradictions, either expose them or embody an alternative or oppositional ideological
position (itself usually contradictory) to dominant ideology. The “subversiveness” of these stars can be
seen in terms of “radical intervention” (not necessarily conscious) on the part of themselves or others who
have used the potential meanings of their image. (Dyer 1998: 34)
Dyer’s suggestion that star bodies have the potential to subvert ideologies provides the
starting point for my investigation into Dewaere’s gender identity. Although Dyer refers
here to ideologies in general, within the context of this study we might choose to refer
59
specifically to gender ideologies. By gender ideologies I mean the set(s) of ideas and
values that act to construct gender identities within society. Later in this chapter, in my
discussion of Judith Butler’s work, I shall explain in more detail what these ideas and
values might be and how they might dominate, other, more subversive ideas about, or
values of, gender. Using Dyer’s quotation as a starting point for this study initiates the
following questions: does Dewaere “manage” or “resolve” contradictions within and
between gender ideologies? Or does he in fact expose or “embody an alternative or
oppositional ideological position” to dominant gender? These questions will inform the
analyses made in the following chapters.
In order to comprehend the complex challenges Dewaere’s body makes to the way that
gender had been understood in France up until the 1970s, we need to establish a
theoretical framework that can deal with questions surrounding gender and the star
body. In so doing I hope to avoid what Paul McDonald describes as a ‘reflectionist
history’ (McDonald 1998: 179)36. What McDonald warns against here is an approach to
the star body that relies solely on historical context. Heeding McDonald’s warning, the
socio-political context of Giscardian France is not the only framework I shall be
drawing upon here. Instead, the direction of my study is in part steered by Jacqueline
Rose’s observation that when analysing the body, philosophical and psychoanalytic
texts are able to push our understanding of gender further than sociological texts, since
they are able to contest certain social presumptions that the latter readings can make:
What distinguishes psychoanalysis from sociological accounts of gender […] is that whereas for the
latter, the internalisation of norms is assumed roughly to work, the basic premise and indeed starting
point of psychoanalysis is that it does not. The unconscious constantly reveals the “failures of identity”.
(Jacqueline Rose quoted in Butler 1999: 200)
36
This comment is made in his contribution to Dyer’s second edition of Stars (1998).
60
By using approaches to gender that draw upon, and challenge, traditional readings of
psychoanalysis, I will build upon the socio-historical context of the previous chapter in
order to better understand the ‘failures of identity’ which, as we shall go on to see,
reveal themselves through Dewaere’s star body.
It is important to add that the purpose of this chapter is not to provide a global overview
of the theoretical developments that have helped our understanding of the star body or
the construction of gender. Instead, I highlight the aspects of star and gender theory that
are most useful in my analysis of Dewaere’s body. Firstly, I pinpoint aspects of two of
Richard Dyer’s seminal works: Stars (1997) and Heavenly Bodies: Film Stars and
Society (2004). Given their early publication dates37 and their focus on Hollywood
cinema, I will swiftly move on to look at more recent developments in French Star
Studies, focusing particularly on the work of Susan Hayward and Ginette Vincendeau. I
then proceed to look at how, when considering stars as cultural signs, fashion and
costume reveal themselves as key signifiers to be deciphered.
In the next section of this chapter I outline the theoretical approaches I shall be adopting
to gender. A common influence within Anglophone studies of gender in French cinema
is Butler’s work on the construction of gender identities38. Butler’s Gender Trouble:
Feminism and the Subversion of Identity will similarly influence my analysis of
Dewaere’s body. It will allow me to decipher the ways in which popular film stars of
Giscardian France conformed or otherwise to certain ‘ideal’ or ‘normative’ notions of
gender; norms, we shall see, that Dewaere was often unable to live up to. Within the
37
Stars was originally published in 1979 and Heavenly Bodies in 1986.
See for example Alex Hughes and James S. Williams (eds), Gender and French cinema (Oxford: Berg,
2001).
38
61
context of Giscardian France, Butler’s work will allow me to clarify what normative
gender might mean, and what the consequences of non-normative behaviour might be.
Butler’s methodology will only take our understanding of Dewaere’s identity so far,
however. In order to explore the ways in which Dewaere’s gender identity progressed
and changed during his lifetime, I shall also draw upon the ideas of Robert Stam (1989),
Elisabeth Bronfen (1998) and the social theorists Elizabeth Hallam, Jenny Hockey and
Glennys Howarth (1999). In this chapter I shall briefly outline how I will use their ideas
to explore the progression of Dewaere’s gender identity.
62
The Star Body as Knotted Subject
Star bodies are constantly changing. They are not simply objects that appear in films,
but instead can be seen as a constantly developing process of identity formation. Dyer
describes how:
[t]he whole phenomenon is unstable, never at a point of rest or equilibrium, constantly lurching from one
formulation of what being human is to another. (Dyer 2004: 16)
The star body is made up of multiple texts and, in turn, multiple narratives of identity.
Dyer reads the star body as a structured polysemy, an idea which he explains below:
By polysemy is meant the multiple but finite meanings and effects that a star image signifies.
[…]Structured polysemy does not imply stasis; images develop or change over time. (Dyer 1998: 63)
The star body is thus a mutable body made up of multiple, shifting texts. The texts and
narratives that make up the star body naturally overlap, intersect and disintegrate over
time. In the following section I outline what texts these might be in a specifically
French context.
In order to better understand the mutability of stars bodies I have begun to think of them
as knots. This idea was influenced by Elisabeth Bronfen’s book, The Knotted Subject:
Hysteria and its Discontents (1998). I shall return to the arguments laid out by Bronfen
in relation to the hysteric later in this chapter, because it is key to our understanding of
Dewaere. For the time being I would like to concentrate on her notion of the knotted
subject, which allows us to see identity as a network of knotted threads. In order to
63
provide a starting point for this idea Bronfen cites the following quotation from
A.S.Byatt:
I see individuals now as knots […]. Things go through us – the genetic code, the history of the nation, the
language or languages we speak […] the constraints that are put on upon us, the people who are around
us. And if we are an individual, it’s because these threads are knotted together in this particular time and
this particular place, and they hold […] I see this knot as vulnerable: you could cut one or two threads of
it […] or you can, of course, get an unwieldy knot where somebody had so much put in that the knot
becomes a large and curious object. We are connected, and we also are a connection which is a separate
and unrepeated object. (Byatt quoted in Bronfen 1998: 8)
Byatt’s description of identity can allow us to think of star bodies as unique objects that
are made up of disparate threads of identity. These threads of identity might be, for
example, geography, nationality, sexuality, gender, or film style and genre. In turn,
these threads may also experience knots within themselves (expressing for example, in
the case of geography, the identity of a person who is identified with several different
geographical places).
Byatt’s notion that the knot ‘holds’ conveys the idea that a star body can endure beyond
its lifetime, and can moreover become, what has been described by Barthes, a myth.39
The notion of a knot which holds is true in the case of Dewaere’s star persona which
has, like many stars who die young and tragically, continued to endure long after his
death. Byatt’s observation implies that those around us or those who put constraints on
us also play a part in the production of the knot. This notion can be readily applied to
the star body, which is constantly moulded and reshaped by directors, producers, editors
and indeed the audience. Other stars, journalists and personal acquaintances also
collaborate in the construction of the star body. This is strikingly the case with Dewaere
39
See Roland Barthes (1993) Mythologies, London: Vintage
64
whose mother has published several books on her son’s life and has given numerous
interviews about the actor40.
Byatt’s last comment in the quotation above signals the uniqueness of the star body. It
is, however, necessary to nuance the last section of this sentence which states that the
individual is an ‘unrepeated object’. The use of the word ‘object’ is somewhat
misleading in that it suggests stasis and solidity – qualities that disguise the mutability
of the star body. With the exception of this last point, Byatt’s definition of the ‘knotted
subject’ allows us to view the star body in all its complexity. What is particularly useful
about using the knot as a metaphor for the star body is that it also allows us to conceive
of a body that is not reliant on binary definitions of gender. I shall return to Bronfen’s
interpretation of the knot in relation to gender and hysteria later in this chapter.
See for example Alès (1982: 6-10), Maurin (1984) Parce que c’est vrai, Maurin (1993) Mon fils cet
inconnu, Maurin (2006) Patrick Dewaere: Mon fils, la vérité.
40
65
The Knotted Subject: Interfacing Texts
The texts that are woven together within the knot that is the star body might include
promotion, publicity, films and criticism and commentaries41. These texts are different
within each star’s national context(s). Vincendeau has argued that French stardom is
created by different media texts to that of Hollywood stardom, and in different ways.
Highbrow publications such as Cahiers du cinéma and Positif have tended to snub the
subject of ‘stars’, favouring the term ‘actor’. Since the 1970s, French stars have
received most print media attention from a new breed of popular film magazines such as
Première, which attracts a largely male readership (Vincendeau 2000: 17)42. Gossip
magazines such as Paris Match, Voici and Ok! are equally important textual elements of
the star body. Regardless of their occasionally dubious content, these publications
provide an interesting insight into the manner in which star bodies are consumed and
perceived by the French public.
Award ceremonies, such as the Césars (itself an invention of the 1970s) (Vincendeau
2000: 17-18), also provide a public interpretation of the star’s off-screen life and often
become a theatre for the ambitions and disillusions of stars (see Chapter 3 for
Dewaere’s own experience at the Césars). Since the late 1970s, television has also
become an important facet of the star body. Despite an early resistance to television on
the part of French film actors during the 1970s, actors such as Dewaere began by the
41
See (Dyer 1998: 60-63)
Dewaere was, and is, a notable beneficiary of the support of Marc Esposito the editor of Première
during the 1970s and later the editor of another popular film publication Studio magazine (launched in
1987). Esposito featured Dewaere on several Première front covers from 1976 onwards. Moreover, when
Dewaere was being ostracised by many journalists following an incident in which Dewaere hit a
journalist (see Chapter Three), he retained the support of Esposito. Finally, after Dewaere died, Esposito
ensured that the film-going public continued to remember Dewaere by creating a documentary about the
actor’s life (1993), and by dedicating a special issue of Studio in his memory.
42
66
1980s to manipulate the medium of television as a means of achieving a closer
proximity to their audiences (Vincendeau 2000: 19).
Vincendeau outlines the clear differences between the industrial contexts of Hollywood
and French cinema. The uniqueness of the national film industry provides a further
layer to the French star’s identity. In France, in order that they survive economically
and critically, stars often move between auteur and mainstream cinema (Vincendeau
2000: 24). This is clearly illustrated in the work of Gérard Depardieu who has, to his
clear advantage, moved confidently between the two forms of cinema (Vincendeau
2000: 223-230). As we shall later see, Dewaere was unable to manipulate the industry
to his advantage in this way.
A further specificity of the French film industry which provides an additional textual
layer to the star body are the long-term professional relationships that stars commonly
form with directors (Vincendeau 2000: 11). Although Vincendeau argues that the
French star tends to have more independence than their Hollywood counterpart, I would
suggest that these relationships can, at times, enforce just as powerful an influence on
the star’s career as the classical Hollywood studios. In the next chapter I shall explore
the complex impact that these intimate professional relationships had on Dewaere’s
career.
One of the key strands to the knot that is the star body is costume. Fashion and costume
are increasingly understood as central elements of star bodies. Rachel Moseley has
recently made this observation in her book Fashioning Film Stars: Dress, Culture and
Identity (2004: 4). She argues that whilst the topic of film costume has undergone
considerable critical analysis, few theorists have engaged with costume as a key
67
signifier of the star body. Moseley notes the important contribution that Vincendeau
(2000) has already made to this discussion. Hayward’s work on Signoret also regularly
draws upon the signifier of costume as a means of deciphering the star’s image
(Hayward 2004: 110-128).
Moseley sees costume as a key means through which the star body ‘manages and
resolves […] the ideological contradictions’ that Dyer describes, ‘particularly through
their reception and appropriation by audiences in their own practices’ (Moseley 2004:
3). Costume is especially relevant when discussing the ideological contradictions of
gender in relation to the star body, since it acts as a key signifier in its construction. In
her discussion of how film costume interfaces with the female body, Gaines (1990: 127) explains how costume can come to regulate the dominant gender norms of our
society. For Gaines, costume can function in order to manage and resolve the
ideological contradictions of gender: ‘The sexual difference system around which
societies are organised, after all, is guaranteed on a day-to-day basis by gendered dress,
adornment and body style’ (Gaines 1990: 26). Within dominant film culture, those
costume or fashion practices that transgress the normative traditions of society are often
demonised or become characterised by alterity, since these ‘counter practices of the
body violate deeply felt premises’ (Gaines 1990: 26). When looking at Dewaere’s body
it will be important to examine how his own costume functions in the signification of
his gender, and to ask to what extent he transgresses the boundaries set for costume
within dominant French film culture.
68
The Star Body and Gender
The interface between costume and gender that we have begun to reveal, leads me now
to focus specifically on my own methodological approach to gender. Discussions of
gender within French film studies often occur in relation to the star bodies. Once again,
Vincendeau and Hayward have provided the groundwork for this discussion in their
research into the star bodies of Jean Gabin and Simone Signoret respectively43. As
Michel Marie underlines, within its French context, Vincendeau’s study of Gabin,
Anatomie d’un mythe was a groundbreaking text when first published in 1994 (Marie
2006:7). Unlike the majority of its French contemporaries the book engages with
cultural studies, and draws specifically on Dyer (which remained unpublished in France
until 2004). Vincendeau devotes a large proportion of her study to the subject of
masculinity. She argues that Gabin is situated within a masculine topography, from
which feminine influences are banished (Vincendeau 2006: 218). Vincendeau argues
that, until the 1970s, these masculine spaces (which include for example the cafébistrot), remained hermetically sealed. During the period of Gabin’s dominant stardom
(30s, 50s and 60s) the idea of a masculine topography continued to be protected. I shall
implement Vincendeau’s idea of gendered topography in my later analyses of
Dewaere’s films.
For Vincendeau, Gabin represents what she terms the degree zero of masculinity. What
Vincendeau means by this is that Gabin in some way harmonises and unites various
forms of masculinity. This is brought into relief by the characters who surround Gabin
in his films:
See Hayward, Simone Signoret: The Star as Cultural Sign (2004), ‘Setting the Agenders: Simone
Signoret and the Pre-Feminist Star Body’, in Gender and French Cinema (2001) and ‘Simone Signoret
1921-1985: The Star as Sign – The Sign as Scar’, in Women and Representation (1995). For works by
Vincendeau which engage with gender and the star body see Vincendeau, Stars and Stardom in French
Cinema (2000), and Mythologie d’un mythe (2006).
43
69
Whilst his friends or accomplices are one-dimensional, he is complex: each of them displays a quality
which is traditionally coded as masculine (physical force, authority, power over women, and wisdom),
whilst he amalgamates all of them. (Vincendeau 2006: 221)
Thus, the violence that Gabin exudes is not the ‘excessive’ violence of characters such
as Régis in Pépé le moko (Duvivier, 1936), but rather one of control and restraint
(Vincendeau 2006: 224). According to Vincendeau, Gabin’s star body not only
incorporates the masculine traits of those around him, but he also manifests
stereotypically feminine qualities such as fragility and beauty. However, he does this
whilst still managing to reject these qualities if they manifest themselves in the women
around him, by literally excluding them (Vincendeau 2006: 221). Vincendeau concludes
that Gabin’s success and popularity are in part achieved as a result of his ability to unite
different forms of identity. She evaluates that ‘this configuration allows Gabin to attain
the ideal of the complete being: masculine/ feminine, man/ woman, father/mother’
(Vincendeau 2006: 234). There is evident truth in this final conclusion even though they
are inevitably (because of the times) clustered around a set of binaries. Later, as my
investigation of Dewaere will show, his own performances function ultimately to
challenge or indeed problematise these binary divisions.
In her study of Simone Signoret, Hayward (2004) manages, to a certain extent, to avoid
this binary formula for identity. By considering the complex array of contexts that
Signoret’s star body is identified with (national, political, theatre, television and film),
and by recognizing the numerous pleasures that can be experienced by watching her
performances, Hayward proposes that Signoret represents multiple femininities.
Hayward says, Signoret
70
is, then, the body political in its widest sense: the body as a site of history and contesting histories, as a
site of economics and economies of desire, and, finally, a mutating body that has as its beginning a
proliferation of femininities but that remains, in the end, unfixed and plural. (Hayward 2004: 54)
Like Hayward, Phil Powrie also sees gender identity as a constantly evolving operation.
Just as Dyer sees stardom as a process, Powrie describes gender as a series of moments
of becoming (Powrie 2004: 14). That is to say that the way in which our bodies
experience gender changes constantly and is therefore unstable.
In her book Gender Trouble, Butler addresses this instability, and as a starting point
criticises the very categories with which we name and describe gender. It is important to
note briefly that although Butler is referring principally to the terms ‘woman’ or
‘women’, her analysis can equally be applied to the terms ‘man’ or ‘men’:
Rather than a stable signifier that commands the assent of those whom it purports to describe and
represent, women, even in the plural, has become a troublesome term, a site of contest, a cause for
anxiety…If one “is” woman, that is surely not all one is; the term fails to be exhaustive, not because a
pregendered “person” transcends the specific paraphernalia of its gender, but because gender is not
always constituted coherently or consistently in different historical contexts, and because gender
intersects with racial, class, ethnic, sexual and regional modalities of discursively constituted identities.
As a result it becomes impossible to separate our “gender” from the political and cultural intersections in
which it is invariably produced and maintained. (Butler 1999: 6)
This quotation clearly iterates the limitations of the terms ‘male’ and ‘female’ as a
means by which to describe the human body. Butler also reminds us that gender is not
simply a biological fact but is also a construction that intersects with its historical,
socio-political, cultural or ethnic context.
71
In order to describe how and why we attribute the terms ‘male’ and ‘female’ to our
bodies, Butler suggests that the body constantly undergoes a process of stylisation.
[G]ender is instituted through the stylization of the body and, hence, must be understood as the mundane
way in which bodily gestures, movements, and enactments of various kinds constitute the illusion of an
abiding gendered self. (Butler 1988: 519)
Butler thus uses this term ‘stylisation’ to describe the way in which human beings make
their gender distinct. The word stylisation implies that the signifiers of gender are not
naturalised but are in fact artificial. These signifiers might take the form of dress or
costume, physicality, gesture, or socio-political positioning. Understood as a form of
stylisation, we can see gender identity as merely a series of attributes which are knotted
together by culture and society.
This process of stylisation acts to normalise dominant forms of gender, or what Butler
refers to as normative gender. Butler uses the term ‘normative’ ‘in a way that is
synonymous with “pertaining to the norms that govern gender”’ (Butler, 1999: xx). This
term, normative, is key to this study of Dewaere. For it is in examining its meaning in
relation to 1970s France, that we begin to understand the significance of Dewaere’s own
gender performances which at times could be described as un-intelligible by dint of not
pertaining to the normative. To do this, it seemed that one the clearest approaches
would be to Dewaere within the context of other star bodies who might (or might not)
represent established and normative forms of gender during the 1970s (see Chapters 4
and 5). We shall see that in certain ways these stars bodies manifest what Butler refers
to as ‘intelligible genders’, or bodies that can be understood according to rules of
normative gender. Below Butler explains this concept of intelligibility in more detail:
72
“Intelligible” genders are those which in some way sense institute and maintain relations of coherence
and continuity among sex, gender, sexual practice, and desire. In other words, the spectres of
discontinuity and incoherence, themselves thinkable only in relation to existing norms of continuity and
coherence, are constantly prohibited and produced by the very laws that seek to establish causal and
expressive lines of connection among biological sex, culturally constituted genders, and the “expression”
or “effect” of both in the manifestation of desire through sexual practice. (Butler 1999: 23)
Implicit to Butler’s argument here is that one reason why the intelligibility of gender
distinctions is so important to dominant society is that these divisions guarantee the
heterosexual imperative. She maintains that the system of compulsory heterosexuality
‘is reproduced and concealed […] through the cultivation of bodies into discrete sexes
with “natural” appearances and “natural” heterosexual dispositions’ (Butler 1988: 524).
This inflexible system of compulsory heterosexuality outlaws other forms of sexuality
in order to preserve itself and other orders dictated by hierarchies of power (law, the
economy and governmental politics).
Inevitably, as Butler explains, not all bodies can, or indeed wish to, adhere to the
constricting rules of normative gender. Some bodies either by accident or by design
violate the boundaries of normative gender and disrupt the process of stylisation
described above. These bodies transgress the boundaries of gender by mixing the signs
and styles of masculinity and femininity. Moreover, they confuse gestures, dress, and
socio-political positionings. Butler explains this process below:
The cultural matrix through which gender identity has become intelligible requires that certain kinds of
“identities” cannot “exist” – that is, those in which gender does not follow from sex and those in which
the practices of desire do not “follow” from either sex or gender. “Follow” in this context is a political
relation of entailment instituted by the cultural laws that establish and regulate the shape and meaning of
sexuality. Indeed, precisely because certain kinds of “gender identities” fail to conform to those norms of
73
cultural intelligibility, they appear only as developmental failures or logical impossibilities within that
domain. (Butler 1999: 23-24)
Here we see that not only are these transgressive bodies unintelligible according to
gender norms, they risk punishment, exclusion or even their very existence. They
become impossibilities. Sarah Chinn (1997: 299) suggests that, if they are not
recognised as ‘real’ men or women, they might also be seen as incomplete subjects.
On a more positive note, Butler argues that these transgressive bodies provide us with
an opportunity to critique the normative frameworks that dominate our society:
Their persistence and proliferation, however, provide critical opportunities to expose the limits and
regulatory aims of that domain of intelligibility and, hence, to open up within the very terms of that
matrix of intelligibility rival and subversive matrices of disorder. (Butler 1999: 23-24)
Later in this thesis we shall ask to what extent Dewaere’s own gendered body provides
a counterpoint to the normative genders of 1970s France. We shall explore the ways
Dewaere’s body exposes ‘the limits and regulatory aims of the domain of intelligibility’.
Furthermore, I shall ask how his body might therefore be considered transgressive. This
will lead me to question in what ways his body challenges the heterosexual imperative.
In order to understand Dewaere’s gendered star body better I shall be drawing on two
further theoretical approaches in my analyses of his film texts.
What becomes clear in the following chapters is that Dewaere’s experience of gender
identity changed during the course of his life. In order to understand this progression
fully I shall need to build upon the theoretical foundation offered by Butler and engage
74
with three further theoretical approaches offered by, first, Stam, second, Bronfen, and,
lastly, Hallam, Hockey and Howarth.
Stam’s discussion of Mikael Bakhtin’s text on Carnivalism looks at how the carnival
can be seen as a means of decentralising power. According to Stam ‘carnival […]is a
collective celebration and ritual that gives voice to a symbolic resistance […] to internal
hegemonies of class, race and gender’ (Stam 1989: 129). In this respect the carnival,
temporarily, challenges and suspends hierarchies of power. It does this through acts of
shared physical celebration. According to Bakhtin, the pleasure and power that is
experienced through carnival originates at the site of the body and the material. As such,
the carnivalesque rejects the opposed principles of high culture, intellectualism and
spirituality. The carnivalesque’s expression of the corporeal is, according to Bakhtin,
exaggerated and uninhibited. As a result, a key ideology which is challenged via the
carnivalesque is that which dictates the functions of normative heterosexuality and
gender identity.
Positioned within the context of Butler’s theoretical approach to gender, the
carnivalesque offers a rich methodological template with which to analyse the
unintelligible within gender identity. Using Stam’s analysis of Bakhtin’s text I shall
assess to what extent Dewaere’s films made in the late 1960s and early 1970s reveal this
form of carnivalism and what implications this might have for Dewaere’s gender
identity in relation to the collective.
Bronfen’s book The Knotted Subject will facilitate my understanding of what can be
said in relation to Dewaere’s gender identity towards the end of his career. In The
Knotted Subject Bronfen discusses the subject of hysteria. She sees the latter condition
75
as a cultural construction which has materialised across a variety of texts including
psychoanalytic studies, films, literature and conceptual art. Bronfen’s conception of
hysteria is not one restricted by gender because she does not see it as a strictly
‘feminine’ condition. Bronfen does this by focusing on the navel as a metaphor for our
identities as humans. For Bronfen, the navel expresses the analogy of the knotted
subject. Moreover, by focusing on the navel instead of the phallus (or lack of),
Bronfen’s understanding of the hysteric also allows her to free the experience of loss
from a fixed gendered subject. Unlike the phallus, the omphalos is something that we all
share, and which signifies the same loss of plenitude, which we all experience, which
occurred when we were cut from our initial union with our mother. Her text thus moves
away from traditional psychoanalytic readings of loss, and allows us to discuss the
experience of lack without being fettered by the culturally constructed terminology of
gender.
Bronfen argues that the hysteric constantly searches for a sense of plenitude, which they
hope will assuage the feelings of loss, death and vulnerability that permeate their lives.
According to Bronfen, the hysteric searches for this plenitude via the performance of
fantasies. Through these fantasies the hysterics engage with multiple narratives,
temporal spaces and subjectivities, which they fail to master and channel effectively.
Consequently, via these fantasies, instead of plenitude, the hysteric is constantly
brought back to the feelings of loss and mutability that characterise their existence.
Thus, the hysteric finds his/herself in a perpetual state of trauma and homelessness.
Since, as we shall see, Dewaere’s later films constantly refer to the theme of absence,
failure, loneliness and emptiness, Bronfen’s reading of loss, in relation to the hysteric,
will provide me with an invaluable critical framework within which to analyse his last
films.
76
In the final chapter of this thesis I shall examine Dewaere’s 1980s films. As we shall see
in the coming chapters, Dewaere’s star body altered significantly during this period. As
a means of investigating this process of change, and the manner in which it was
represented both on and off-screen I shall employ the sociological term ‘social death’,
as explained by Hallam, Hockey and Howarth. I use this term because it will allow me
to draw out the ways in which Dewaere’s star body became increasingly coded with
danger, exclusion and the collapse of the self at the end of his career.
Social death refers to those individuals whose connection and interaction with society
has deteriorated. The term articulates how certain bodies experience a form of death
prior to their final, biological death. These are often individuals who have been
economically, spatially or socially excluded from society as a result of their failure to
maintain ‘the body project’ (failure to control the body through the maintenance of
one’s health, both psychological and physical). The term is often used to describe the
existence of elderly people who have become either psychologically or geographically
distanced from their families, but it can also be used to describe certain individuals who
are the victims of addiction, unemployment, and homelessness. However, it is important
to note that these individuals frequently do not see themselves in this light, but rather
have this categorisation projected onto them. In this respect, visual representation plays
an important role in the construction of a socially dead body. In the case of Dewaere,
social death is constructed from both within and outside the star body, via the various
texts that make up the knotted star body.
The term social death has specific consequences for our discussion of Dewaere’s
gendered star body. I shall show that the representation of a body as part dead/ part alive
77
is hugely transgressive, since life and death lead, according to Bronfen and Goodwin
(1993), to the formation of all other boundaries, including those of gender identity (i.e.
masculinity and femininity). Thus, by using the term social death, I shall also be able to
unpick the damaged identity of Dewaere’s gendered body as he approached the end of
his life.
78
Conclusion
This chapter has set out the theoretical framework I intend to use in my analysis of
Dewaere’s gendered star body. By looking at Dyer I have shown that the star body can
articulate the contradictions that exist ‘within and between’ gender ideologies. I have
outlined the kinds of texts which make up the star body, and have drawn particular
attention to the importance of costume in the construction of gender. I have suggested
that these texts, and the narratives of the star’s life, come together to form a knotted
subject. Butler’s suggestion that gender is an artificial construct dictated by dominant
norms, combined with Bronfen’s analogy of the knot, will allow us to devalue binary
definitions of gender, and engage with the complex mutability of the star body.
In the next chapter, I shall construct a critical biography of Dewaere’s life. Following
Hayward’s methodological approach to Signoret’s star body (2004), I shall not be
documenting Dewaere’s life along a strictly chronological and linear line. Instead, I
shall unpick three interwoven narratives that run across and through his star body.
These are as follows: ‘Patrick Maurin: 1947 – 1982’, which examines his personal
relationships and the impact they had on the construction of his identity, ‘Patrick
Dewaere and the Café de la Gare: 1968-1982’, which looks at Dewaere’s involvement
with this progressive theatre group, and lastly ‘Patrick Dewaere the Star: 1974-1982’,
which discusses the actor’s rise to fame and his increasingly marginalised star body.
These three narratives will allow me to unveil the complex layering of texts within the
star body, which will in turn allow for a more in depth understanding of his gender
identity.
79
Chapter Three
Critical Biography of Patrick
Dewaere
80
Chapter Three
Critical Biography of Patrick Dewaere
This chapter provides an outline of Patrick Dewaere’s life. It will consolidate disparate
biographical resources such as interviews, newspaper articles and biographies and will
provide a new, more critical approach to these materials which have so far been largely
hagiographic (Loubier 2002 and Penso 1981). The exception to this rule is Austin’s
useful introductory analyses of Dewaere’s star body (2003a: 175-187 and 2003b: 7890).
This chapter will offer a more detailed assessment of Dewaere’s life, particularly in
relation to gender. In order to do this I will not be constructing the narrative of
Dewaere’s life in a singular, linear order. Here I am influenced by Hayward’s critical
approach to the star body as cultural sign in her study of Simone Signoret (2004).
Hayward proposes that in order to place that particular female actor within the ‘contexts
and locations of her times’, and to study the ‘density, historically and politically, of
Signoret’s star persona’, a different approach is needed (2004: 1). As a methodology,
Hayward adopts Bakhtin’s chronoptope, a term that allows her to investigate ‘the
intrinsic connection between time and space and the structures of Signoret’s life’
(2004:1). Hayward then divides Signoret’s life into three time-space narratives which,
although apparently separate, overlap and intersect. The use of the chronotope as a way
of structuring the narratives of an individual’s life in many ways reflects the
construction of the knotted star body, which was described in the previous chapter. Like
the knotted star body, the chronotope articulates the many interwoven layers and threads
that make up the knot of the star’s identity.
81
Influenced by Hayward, I have similarly divided Dewaere’s life into three separate
narratives (or threads). The first, ‘Patrick Maurin: 1947 – 1982’, addresses Dewaere’s
origins as an actor, his relationship with his family and his absent father. The second,
‘Patrick Dewaere and the Café de la Gare: 1968-1982’, notes a dramatic shift in his
persona in that it looks at Dewaere’s association with the theatre group that he felt
instigated his re-birth as an individual and as an actor. The last narrative of identity,
‘Patrick Dewaere the Star: 1974-1982’, looks at the importance of violence in the
construction of his gendered star body. An analysis of these three disparate, yet
interconnected, narratives will reveal how conflict developed within Dewaere’s identity.
What I will also show is that within each of these narratives of identity we find a
unifying thread of sorts, namely, aspects of marginality in relation to Dewaere’s star
body.
I need to pause here briefly to explain in what ways I intend to employ this term. In his
discussion of marginality in French cinema, Will Higbee (2001: 6-7) begins by
outlining the restrictions of this term, namely the way in which it can confine an
individual ‘to a pre-determined position outside or beyond the “norms” of the dominant
societal group’ (Higbee, 2001: 6). To avoid imprisoning the subject within this term,
Higbee suggests that it is preferable to perceive marginality ‘not as a fixed identity, but
rather a positionality in terms of the limitations of subject’s access to power’ (Higbee,
2001: 6). Taking these factors into account, he then goes on to define the term
marginality in the following ways:
Firstly, marginality reflects a positioning which implies the exclusion from the dominant cultural or
societal norm of those groups or individuals within society who […] are perceived by hegemony as a
troubling presence […]. This positioning is not, however, one which confines the individual […] to a
82
fixed position of perpetual Other-ness. Neither is it necessarily a position that those identified as
‘marginal’ are obliged to accept or identify with. Marginality is thus simultaneously a space of exclusion
(as defined by hegemony) but also a potential site of resistance. (Higbee, 2001: 8)
One of the key groups that hegemony excludes as marginal, are those individuals who
are deemed ‘a troubling presence’ as a result of their gendered identity. In order to
nuance Higbee’s definition of marginality in relation to gender, I now need to draw on
RW Cornell’s discussion of hegemonic masculinities. He explains:
The concept of ‘hegemony’ […] refers to the cultural dynamic by which a group claims and sustains a
leading position in social life. At any given time, one form of masculinity rather than others is culturally
exalted. Hegemonic masculinity can be defined as the configuration of gender practice which embodies
the currently accepted answer to the problem of the legitimacy of patriarchy, which guarantees (or is
taken to guarantee) the dominant position of men and the subordination of women. (Connell 2005: 77)
Here Connell sets up the way in which certain masculinities dominate and exclude other
forms of masculinity in order to perpetuate the system of patriarchy, which aims to
similarly dominate and exclude women. By way of illustrating this idea in a 1970s
French context, we can take Alain Delon as a contemporaneous example of a masculine
body that legitimises patriarchy and the subordination of women, in the face of 1970s
feminism. Arguably, Delon’s films of this period can be seen as a popular manifestation
of a wider backlash against feminism and the emancipation of women (Allwood 1998:
30). In Delon’s late 1970s films the presence of emancipated women is rejected.
Instead, women are obscured from the narrative only to be reinstated in order to assert
Delon’s heterosexuality and to underline his dynamism. These women are either
infantilised (as is repeatedly the case for Annie Parillaud)44 or pacified as objects, and
they are always dependent on Delon. As the danger of the narratives intensifies the
44
See for example Pour la peau d’un flic (Delon, 1982) and Le Battant (Delon, 1981).
83
female characters are invariably pushed off screen so that Delon can resolve the
conflict, without the threat of the female presence.
Unlike Delon, who legitimises patriarchy through the exclusion of women, certain
masculinities do not perform this task of legitimating patriarchy and, as a result become
what we can term marginalised and/ or subordinated. In this respect, Connell’s
definition of hegemonic masculinities given above relates to Butler’s understanding of
gender identities, whereby those bodies that do not adhere to the ‘rules’ of gender are
punished, excluded and therefore marginalised. We recall that:
The cultural matrix through which gender identity has become intelligible requires that certain kinds of
‘identities’ cannot ‘exist’ – that is, those in which gender does not follow from sex and those in which the
practices of desire do not ‘follow’ from either sex or gender. ‘Follow’ in this context is a political relation
of entailment instituted by the cultural laws that establish and regulate the shape and meaning of
sexuality. Indeed, precisely because certain kinds of ‘gender identities’ fail to conform to those norms of
cultural intelligibility, they appear only as developmental failures or logical impossibilities within that
domain. (Butler 1999: 23-24)
According to Butler, those gendered bodies that do not adhere to the conventions of
‘cultural intelligibility’ are, then, pushed to the limits of ‘the norms of cultural
intelligibility’, and are thus marginalised. In this chapter, I shall examine to what extent
Dewaere does not legitimate hegemonic masculinity, and instead undermines it, thus
revealing his gendered star body as a marginalised ‘developmental failure’. We shall see
that, both on and off screen, Dewaere persistently embodies marginalised masculinities
and thus ‘developmental failures’. By beginning to pinpoint the ways in which Dewaere
manifests a marginalised masculinity, this chapter will provide the groundwork for the
more detailed work of the last four chapters of this thesis (Part Two), each of which
present in-depth textual analyses of Dewaere’s films.
84
1. Patrick Maurin: 1947 – 1982
Patrick Maurin45 was born in 1947 in Saint-Brieuc, Brittany. In the same year his family
returned to Paris, where Dewaere would spend the rest of his life. Dewaere was born
into a family of actors. When he was born, his mother Mado Maurin had two sons,
Jean-Pierre and Yves-Marie, and had recently divorced her performer husband PierreMarie Bourdeaux. Although Bourdeaux appears as Dewaere’s father on his birth
certificate (Lesueur 1992: 11), his real father was an orchestra conductor Mado met
whilst living in Bordeaux (Loubier 2002: 24 and 32). During the 1950s, in order to
compensate for her own lack of income, Mado sent her young children to work in films,
television and theatre.46 In the industry people started to count on Mado for her reliable
young boys. (Loubier 2002: 17). By the age of four Dewaere also began to act
professionally.47 Dewaere did not receive any kind of real acting training until his teens
when he was preparing for his entrance to the Conservatoire, from which he was
eventually refused entry on two occasions (Lemoîne 1979:48)48. Reflecting on his work
as a child actor Dewaere the star would later comment that:
‘As a Maurin, I was just a number’, explains Patrick. ‘In my family, everyone is an actor, my mother and
my five brothers and sisters: my father is a tenor. We have always been on the boards. Ok, I acted at six
years old, but I wasn’t an actor, I didn’t have the vocation. It was more a tradition […] I was, what I
would call, an acting slave’. (Dewaere quoted in Gauthey 1975: 11)
Here Dewaere the star describes himself as an ‘acteur larbin’ (an acting slave). The
quotation thus suggests that the Maurin children were seen as vehicles for money.
45
For the purposes of continuity I shall hereafter refer to Patrick Maurin as Dewaere.
Jean-Pierre started to ‘act’ at the age of 20 months (Lesueur 1992: 11).
47
Dewaere’s first film was Monsieur Fabre (Henri Diamant-Berger, 1951), in which he played Pierre
Fresnay’s son.
48
Dewaere also failed his baccalaureate four times (Esposito 1978: 58)
46
85
Coupled with Dewaere’s observation that within his family he was just a number, we
are given the impression that acting within the Maurin family devalued the individual
identities of its members and deprived them of personal freedom. This assessment is
corroborated by the actor and director Yves Robert, who knew Dewaere from a young
age:49
‘I knew him from a very young age. […] He came from a family of actors, a family who trained the
children to be actors, who negotiated roles for them at a very young age, who taught them how to do
tricks like performing dogs’. (Robert quoted in Lesueur 1992: 15)
Robert underlines here how the Maurin children were conditioned and moulded into
their roles as actors. Moreover, by comparing the children to performing dogs he reveals
just how unnatural their upbringing was and how dehumanising their training as actors
was. Their function as actors was unnatural. As performing dogs the children were
obliged to be obedient and, even at a very young age, entirely professional. This form of
professionalism stayed with Dewaere the star in his adult career. And it is worth noting
that despite his later heroin addiction, and the debilitating effects this must have had, he
is described by all those who worked with him as a consummate professional.50
As a child actor Dewaere worked in difficult roles. In the play Misère et noblesse
(Jacques Fabbri, 1956) he played an abused child and in another play Procès de famille
(Diégo Fabri, 1956) he was hit by one of his adult co-actors. Moreover, he worked (as
did his brother) with infamously autocratic directors such as Henri-Georges Clouzot and
stage directors who allegedly bullied him such as Jacques Fabbri (Maurin 1993: 55).
For his role in Fabbri’s play Patrick was also expected to go on tour and separate
himself from his family for nearly four months. According to reports from his co-actors,
49
50
Dewaere worked with Robert’s wife in the television programme Maison de poupée (1954):
See for example: (Maurin, 1993: 62, 65,102 and 132)
86
Patrick was miserable during this period (Loubier 2002: 58). Moreover, even when
Dewaere was at home, Mado and her partner Georges Collignon also frequently toured
with their music hall show, leaving
Patrick to learn how to look after
himself (Samedi soir 1954: 10).
Consequently, as a result of their
numerous professional commitments,
the Maurin family was fragmented
early on.
As a child Patrick and his brothers
were often in competition for the same
FIG: 1
Misère et noblesse (Jacques Fabbri, 1956
roles (Emsalem 2002: 15). Jealousy
and competition duly caused further fissures within the family, ones which would
remain throughout Dewaere’s adult life. Whilst Dewaere became more and more
successful during the 1970s, his brothers did not know the same success and this caused
resentment between them (Servat 1992: 54 and Alès 1982:10). Although Patrick
remained in contact with his family he increasingly sought to distance himself from
them (Maurin 1993: 163).
The two principal roots of Dewaere’s displacement, and indeed marginalisation, within
the Maurin family were arguably his stardom and his paternity (Maurin 1993: 107).
Dewaere was irreversibly divided from his family when, at 15, he discovered that he
was not the son of Georges Collignon (Maurin 1993: 219). Collignon had, up to that
point, raised Dewaere as his own son. According to those who knew him, Dewaere’s
sense of identity took some serious knocks. It would not be too strong to argue, as some
87
have, that the resultant fractured identities he experienced are at the source of his
subsequent lived trauma.51 At a superficial level, these fractures are revealed in his
various nomenclatures. Patrick had three names in his life, none of which he was able to
truly possess. He never used Collignon’s name, and since Dewaere’s real father
declined to acknowledge his existence, Mado declared her son under the name of her
former husband, a man Dewaere never knew. Thus, on his death certificate he is known
as ‘Jean-Marie Bourdeaux “dit Dewaere”’.
At the peak of his estrangement from his family, during the early 1970s, Dewaere went
in search of his father. Dewaere, and his then wife Sotha, went in search of him armed
only with the knowledge that he was a musician, in his fifties, who lived in Boulognesur-mer. According to Sotha one of Dewaere’s central preoccupations in this search was
whether his father was bald or not, which he felt would explain his own loss of hair
(Maurin 1993: 87).52 Finally, after asking door-to-door, they discovered that he had died
ten years previously (Maurin 1993: 87). This unsatisfying resolution underlines the
futility of Dewaere’s search, not merely for his father, but also for his own identity and
sense of self. Since, the loss of the father could easily be read as signification of lack
and absence, a quality that fundamentally undermines hegemonic masculinity and
therefore the legitimacy of patriarchy.
A number of directors with whom Dewaere worked in later life suggested that Dewaere
had positioned them as a father figure. An example of a director who took on this role is
Claude Sautet who made Un Mauvais fils (1980). This film stars Dewaere and narrates
His friend Patrick Bouchitey described Patrick as an ‘orphan searching for his roots’ (Maurin 1993:
158)
52
We can perhaps deduce from this that Dewaere associated the absence of his father with the
vulnerability of his image. Furthermore, given that Dewaere’s concerns about his appearance were linked
to his early hair loss, we might make a link between his lost father, his vulnerable image and his damaged
virility.
51
88
the story of a father and son who are estranged as a result of the son’s heroin addiction.
In an interview with Dewaere’s mother, Sautet claims that he had always had ‘the
impression that he [Dewaere] was on a quest to find a father’ (Sautet quoted in Maurin
1993: 219). We shall see in the final chapter of this thesis that the quest for the father
(and mother) also provides the central narrative force within Un Mauvais fils, and as
with Dewaere’s own search for the father, can also be read as a search for the
character’s own identity.
One way in which Dewaere symbolically searched for his identity was via a series of
name changes. Until the age of 20, Dewaere was known by his mother’s maiden name
‘Maurin’. Having already left home, Patrick sought to permanently distance himself
(and indeed marginalise himself)
from the rest of the Maurin family
when he took the name of his
Belgian Grandmother ‘Dewaere’.53
Although many have seen the Café
de la Gare as the site of Dewaere’s
rebirth as an actor and as an
FIG 2: Jean de la tour miracle(Carrère, 1967)
individual, at the time Dewaere
himself saw this change of name as
an initial catalyst. In an interview promoting Jean de la Tour Miracle, Dewaere said ‘I
metamorphosed […] I really have the impression that I am starting out’ (Fournier 1967:
34). 54 However, Dewaere was never able to claim his chosen name fully. When he
applied to have it changed officially in 1975 he was rejected as the name was not
‘French’ (Loubier 2002: 92). It is also important to note that it was Mado’s mother’s
53
54
In Flemish the name means truth.
He first adopted this name for his role in Jean de la tour miracle (Carrère, 1967).
89
name that Dewaere had adopted. Thus, despite his attempts at autonomy, his fraught
relationship with the Maurin name remained. Moreover, the use of Maurin and then
Dewaere also represents an over-identification with the matrilineal and therefore the
feminine. I would argue that Dewaere’s self-naming through the matrilineal is a form of
enactment that constitutes, at least partially, the ambiguity of his gendered self (to
paraphrase Butler)55. By positioning himself in relation to the matrilineal line, he
simultaneously denies his relationship with his father (and thus patriarchy), and
inscribes himself within the femininity of his family. Moreover, given that he was never
actually able to formally adopt the name Dewaere, he was positioned in an even more
acutely ambivalent place in relation to his gender identity (being neither of the mother
nor of the father). This conflicted link to the matrilineal and the patrilineal thus points
towards some of the complexities within Dewaere’s gendered identity (i.e. his
simultaneous attempts at identification with both matriarchy and patriarchy), which will
be developed in subsequent chapters in relation to his films.
Dewaere’s adult life was similarly fragmented and conflicted. He was married twice (to
Sotha in 1968 and Elsa Bourdeaux-Dewaere in 198056) and had two children (one with
Miou-Miou and the other with Elsa). Dewaere’s relationship with Miou-Miou in the
1970s was in many ways in accordance with changing contemporary values. The pair
never married but lived together and had a child, Angèle. Their lifestyle was thus
consistent with the rise in the cohabitation of unmarried couples during the 1970s
(Segalen 2000: 133). In contrast with his apparently bohemian lifestyle with MiouMiou, his marriages to Sotha and Elsa suggest (to varying degrees) his desire for
conventional stability. Although his marriage to Sotha was originally a farce that they
55
56
See (Butler 1988: 519).
Unlike Sotha, Elsa, took both his official (Bourdeaux) and unofficial names (Dewaere).
90
had dreamt up when they first met57, it eventually became a serious union (Maurin
1993: 83-4). As for his marriage to Elsa, this caused further fracture within family.
Dewaere stated in interview that he sought to put down roots: ‘Me, the bohemian, the
friend of change, I needed something permanent. I wanted a real house, […] a little
family […]. I needed roots’ (de Nussac 1980: 15). It would therefore seem that towards
the end of his life Dewaere was looking for stability via an ‘other’ or the ‘other’, and
hoped to achieve it in part through marriage.
This search for stability is arguably mirrored in Dewaere’s appearance, which changed
towards the end of his life. Dewaere noted, for example, that his image had become
more formal. From the outside it would seem perhaps that this change instigated the
development of an unfamiliar ‘alter ego’ that differed from Dewaere’s star persona.
Shortly before his death, Dewaere observed that:
I have changed enormously and not only in relation to roles that I play. I have changed in my own life as
well. Let’s say that I was a left-wing beatnik […] I had long hair, a fat moustache. Now, I’m not like that
at all! (Dewaere quoted in Alès, 1982: 8)
Dewaere’s reflections on his changing image are revelatory. However, although the
changes that he made to his appearance were part of a deliberate attempt to break with
his past, and to gain control of his image, the point is surely, as Austin points out
(2003b: 87), that the loss of his moustache can be read as a signification of his
increased vulnerability towards the end of his life. Austin (2003b: 87) argues that this
moustache provided Dewaere protection from his insecurities. As I shall show the last
chapter of this thesis, without this moustache, Dewaere’s weaker alter ego (which
57
On their first meeting Dewaere and Sotha had joked about the idea of marrying someone you hardly
knew, just for the sake of it (thus undermining the ‘sanctity’ of an officiated, heterosexual union).
91
always, as we shall see, existed below the surface) is pushed to the forefront, acutely
revealing Dewaere’s vulnerability.
Dewaere also sought stability through his house, which he did up with friends
(Lemoîne, 1979: 48). However, as with his moustache, it also provided him with a false
sense of security. Dewaere never actually owned the house and when one journalist
visited it in 1982, he observed that it appeared as ramshackle as it had done in 1979
when Dewaere had first moved in (Alès, 1982: 10). This precarious living situation
arguably compounded his mutable existence. Our homes, after all, often form the
foundation of our identities, as McDowell explains here: ‘dwelling and the home are a
key element in the development of people sense themselves as belonging to a place’
(1999: 72). Dewaere’s unstable sense of home thus mirrors Dewaere’s similarly
unstable sense of family, within which he was unable to establish a clear ‘sense of
himself’, for the reasons I discussed above. As we shall see Dewaere’s uncertain
relationship with space is reflected on screen in several of his films, but particularly
those that I will be looking at in the final chapter of this thesis: Un Mauvais fils and
Beau père.
Dewaere’s personal relationships were similarly unstable. According to friends,
Dewaere’s personal life was deeply troubled. Some have even argued that he adopted a
masochistic position in his relationships with women. Bouchitey describes his
perception of Dewaere in this regard and makes an interesting parallel with his
relationship with Depardieu:
[H]e loved to be mistreated […]its perhaps not fair to say that, but he was a masochist with women […]
he had been marked, as well, by his contact with Depardieu. He really liked Depardieu, he was fascinated
92
by his personality. But Gérard was much more structured, much stronger physically, and I believe that he
didn’t reciprocate the true friendship that Patrick desired. (Bouchitey quoted in Maurin 1993: 157)
Two factors need to be drawn from Bouchitey’s comments here. Firstly, by referring to
Dewaere in this context, we presume Bouchitey is suggesting that Dewaere wilfully
inflected pain and suffering on himself via his relationships with women. This could of
course be speculation on Bouchitey’s part. However, his comments nonetheless
construct Dewaere as damaged and vulnerable for the retrospective reader/ viewer of
Dewaere’s star body, and are thus worth noting. Moreover, given that this damage
allegedly occurred without resistance from Dewaere, and at the hands of his female
partners, his gendered identity is also destabilised by these comments, since they
construct him as a weak man whose masculinity had been compromised. The second
factor that needs to be drawn from this quotation is Bouchitey’s impression of
Dewaere’s relationship with Depardieu. As we shall see in the next chapter, Depardieu
exerted considerable power over Dewaere, both on and off-screen. Bouchitey’s
perception of their association corroborates this interpretation of Depardieu’s
superiority to Dewaere in physique, virility and stability – and also points to their
somewhat masochistic relationship.
Dewaere’s unfortunate experiences with women, which are well documented, added to
his status as a damaged star. For example, following his death there was speculation that
Elsa had fallen in love with his close friend Coluche and that this was the reason for his
suicide58. There is evidence to suggest that Dewaere transposed this pain and suffering
to his roles. The actor explained that when he played sad characters he brought his own
sadness to his performance, which, he observed, was an ultimately damaging and selfdestructive process:
58
See Emsalem, 2002: 15, and de Saint-Angel, 2003: 16.
93
‘If I play a sad character, I give all that is sad in me and I attach myself to all that I find sad […] In the
end, I am truly lost in the middle of all this mess‘. (Dewaere quoted in Alès 1982: 8)
Similarly, Dewaere stated elsewhere the following:
‘When I act, I give so much energy, so much of my life, of my personal experiences’. (Dewaere quoted in
Maurin 1993:115)
When juxtaposed, these quotations suggest that not only did Dewaere find himself in a
position of masochism within his relationships, but also within his method as an actor.
This masochism was evident in several of his films, particularly those made following
his break-up with Miou-Miou (1975). Even in his comic roles Dewaere’s characters’
failures with women are constantly cited. For example, in Psy (de Broca, 1981)
Dewaere plays Marc, whose constant humiliation and failure with women provide the
film’s humour.
One of the clearest illustrations of how
Dewaere adapted his own sufferings to
his roles is found in F. comme
Fairbanks. I shall look at this film in
more detail in Chapter Seven, but would
like now to briefly outline the ways in
FIG 3: Miou-Miou and Dewaere in F. comme
Fairbanks (Dugowson, 1976)
which this film demonstrates how
Dewaere’s so-called masochism is transposed to his screen roles. In the film Dewaere
plays André a young man who returns from the army to find he is unable to find
employment. Moreover, when he starts a relationship with Marie (Miou-Miou), they are
94
plagued by his insecurities and self-doubt. Dewaere and Miou-Miou had split up shortly
before shooting began. Allegedly, the relationship had been put under pressure by,
amongst other things, Miou-Miou’s increasingly close friendship with Julien Clerc, her
co-star in D’amour et d’eau fraïche (Loubier 2002: 205). As a result of press
speculation about Miou-Miou and Clerc’s relationship, Dewaere had already been
presented as the weaker, ‘cuckholded’ party (see Chamaral, 1975: 19-20). According to
those who worked with Dewaere on Fairbanks, whilst remaining entirely professional,
the actor brought the suffering he was experiencing into his role as André. This is
illustrated in part by the film’s score, which Dewaere had written during the course of
the shoot and which conveys the actor’s distress at that time (Maurin 1993: 98). The
other key way in which Dewaere’s actual emotional trauma was communicated in his
performance of André, was in the scenes of self-inflicted violence towards the end of
the film. Prior to shooting the final scene in which André bursts on stage and chases
Marie, Dewaere had warned that ‘I’m going to do myself a lot of harm, so I’m not going
to harm myself in the rehearsal. Everything has to be ready, and if, afterwards I pass
out, that’ll be too bad for you’ (Dewaere quoted in Maurin 1993: 116). His co-star JeanMichel Folon recalls that following this shoot (when he repeatedly threw himself
against a trailer), Dewaere had injured himself so badly that the crew had wanted to take
the actor to hospital. For Folon, this violent performance was a manifestation of
Dewaere’s sadness (Maurin 1993: 116).
Dewaere’s tangible sadness in F comme Fairbanks, whilst clearly personal, seems also
to mirror France’s own sense of national trauma at that time, most strongly in evidence
through the effects of youth unemployment. Although at the time the enormity of the
unemployment crisis was yet to be felt (the film was shot at the end of 1975), Maurice
Dugowson had drawn the story from the experiences of his peers, who regardless of
95
their qualifications, could not find a job (Maurin 1993: 97). The film thus relates to the
beginnings of the rise in unemployment in France59, just as much as it points towards
Dewaere’s own looming self-destruction. Interestingly, although the film tends to focus
on male youth unemployment, as I noted in Chapter One, the dearth of jobs in the mid1970s largely affected women (Laubier, 1990: 116 and 134-5). However, Mendras
suggests that whereas unemployment amongst women simply reinstated prior
formations of gender roles within the home (Mendras, 1994: 299), unemployment
amongst men actively disrupts these patterns. We might therefore argue that this would
have undermined the configuration of gender amongst young men, for whom work
could no longer be seen as a safe signifier of masculinity. This is clearly the case for
André who is marginalised from capitalist society as a result of his inability to consume
or produce.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, given its painfully relevant subject matter, the film was not a
huge economic success. Arguably, for French spectators watching the film in 1976,
Dewaere’s performance of desperation in the face of socio-economic hardship was
perhaps too close to the truth for them to identify comfortably with it. This observation
might apply to several films that Dewaere made towards the end of his career. Un
Mauvais fils, Beau père, Coup de tête and Hôtel des Amériques all tackled issues that
were too close to the experience of late 1970s France (for example unemployment,
immigration, exclusion and drug abuse). In these films, just as in F. comme Fairbanks,
Dewaere embodies these social issues through his characters, who are consistently
placed at the outside of mainstream society through various processes of exclusion
(including unemployment, homelessness, substance abuse and illegal sexual practices).
As with F. comme Fairbanks, each of these films had limited success at the box office
According to Henri Mendras, from 1975 ‘the majority of young people couldn’t find a stable job after
coming out of education or military service […] For varying periods, [these young people] were
unemployed or lived off unstable menial work’ (Mendras 1994: 330)
59
96
(despite the presence of star actors and directors). As a result of Dewaere’s embodiment
of the social in these films, he became irrevocably positioned as a frightening icon of
socio-economic crisis. For Blier these films constructed Dewaere as a threatening figure
for spectators: ‘Patrick was always a marginal actor, who disturbed, except in one or
two films. It was his vocation’ (Blier quoted in Maurin 1993: 262). In the third narrative
of this chapter I shall return to Dewaere’s threatening star persona, and consider how it
may or may not have been developed as a result of his collaboration with directors such
as Blier.
2. Patrick Dewaere and the Café de la Gare (1968-1982)
In 1968 Dewaere met Sotha60, a woman who would not only become his wife but would
also introduce him to the co-founders of the Café de la Gare Roman Bouteille and
Coluche. This meeting would change Dewaere’s life as an individual and as an actor
forever. Dewaere himself was categorical: ‘“What happened before doesn’t count”,
states Dewaere. “I have only been myself since my meeting with Le Café de la Gare”’
(Dewaere quoted in Gauthey 1975: 11). Once again, we note how this quotation reveals
that Dewaere sought to discard parts of his identity in order construct a sense of self that
he was comfortable with.
60
I have found no trace of Sotha ever having used a surname during her career.
97
It is difficult to trace the exact occurrence of his first meeting with Sotha as accounts
appear to conflict (see Maurin 1993: 83, Lesueur 1992: 26-27). However, most
accounts consistently cite the events of May 1968 as the true beginnings of their
friendship and Sotha’s recollections
appear to be the most precise. When
interviewed by Maurin, Sotha stated
that they met on the 5 June 1968 at
the municipal theatre in Suresnes
where 1300 gathered as États
généraux du cinema (Maurin 1993:
83) The États généraux du cinéma
was set up by cinema professionals
during the heady days of May 1968
and who:
[A]ttacked cinema as a bourgeois institution
and vowed to put in place another kind of
FIG 4: Patrick Dewaere at the Café de la gare
cinema that went away from dominant
ideological praxis and towards a political
cinema that was non-hierarchical and cheaply made and that addressed the real lives of the working class
as well as the issues affecting it. (Hayward 1993: 237)
We shall see that a number of the demands, such as those of the États généraux du
cinema, were reflected in the philosophy and practice of the Café de la Gare.
Dewaere and Sotha were introduced by a mutual friend Elisabeth Weiner. Following
their first meeting Sotha, Dewaere and Wiener subsequently participated in an
98
occupation of the cinema the Trois Luxembourg. They took control of the cinema’s
programming for a period of two weeks and showed films that had previously been
banned, such as La Bataille d’Alger (Gillo Pontecorvo, 1965). However, despite his
apparently political involvement in this protest, Dewaere’s interest in May 1968 was
still primarily motivated by his desire for amusement and the expression of personal
liberties. Dewaere’s recollection of the événements below is revealing in this regard:
‘I was in a bus going down the Boulevard Saint-Michel and suddenly it stopped because the street was
blocked by a line of police officers! I got off to see what was going on. And I saw a whole load of people
having fun, shouting […] I stayed there, staring and a cop, from behind, hit me on the head with a
truncheon […] So I started to run with the other guys …That day I had such a great time, that the day
after, of course I was there! For me it was a big party. I wasn’t at all politicised! Nor am I now! […] Of
course there were some really politicised people […] They really pissed me off!’ (Dewaere quoted in
Esposito, 1978: 58)
As this testimony indicates, Dewaere on the whole rejected politicisation, and Sotha
recalls that Dewaere never voted (Lesueur 1992: 56). However, regardless of his lack of
politicisation, his participation in les événements and his work with directors such as
Yves Boisset61 signalled an alignment with the left. This political positioning went
against the politics of the Maurin family as Sotha explains:
‘He had leftwing tendencies, like us. For a while he was at odds with his family on this issue, they were
rightwing, particularly Mado […]. He had very particular tastes, but no overarching political ideology. He
didn’t read the newspaper and he never watched the news’. (Sotha quoted in Lesueur 1992: 56)
61
During the 1970s, Boisset, along with directors such as Costa-Gavras and André Cayatte began to make
films which, through the genre of the policier, began to address social or political injustices. These films
were often criticised for their tendency to spectacularise the poltical for the sake of narrative. See Smith’s
discussion of the série-Z for more details (2005: 35-73)
99
Dewaere’s focus on the anarchic and celebratory elements of les événements, rather than
their overt politicisation, was consistent with the ethos behind the Café de la Gare
(Merle 1985: 42), an idea which Sotha would shortly introduce to Dewaere. Life within
the Maurin family was on the whole conservative and grounded itself in traditional
values such as Catholicism (de Nussac 1980: 15). In contrast, the members of the Café
de la Gare rejected rules, hierarchies and dominating power structures, as the founder,
Roman Bouteille explains:
‘I wanted a place where you could establish a viable anarchy, where the most important law was that it
was forbidden to forbid. We had decided, for example, that once an actor had received a text, then it
belonged to him what ever he did. […] We were not allowed to direct, everything was managed via
individual discussions in corners […] Everyone was responsible for everything’. (Bouteille quoted in
Dicale 2001: 28)
At the centre of the Café de la Gare’s philosophy was collectivism. As such, all the
members of the theatre group invested both time and finance into the project. Dewaere,
Sotha, Bouteille and Philippe Manesse all lived in the same flat, and they would each
take it in turns to work and provide for the other members of the group (Lesueur 1992:
38). Thus, Dewaere sold his car (Gauthey 1975: 11) and did voice-over and
advertisement work in order to finance the project. Family members also provided;
Coluche’s mother invited them round to dinner once a week and Sotha’s father would
regularly take them out (Lesueur 1992: 39-40). The way of life adopted by Dewaere at
the Café de la Gare mirrored the increasing number of young people who, in the late
1960s and early 1970s, rejected traditional family structures, and embraced instead a
commune lifestyle (Mendras 1994: 328-9).
100
The spirit of collectivism and generosity would stay with Dewaere throughout his life.
Thus, for example, Dewaere regularly had friends who had fallen on hard times to stay
with him for extended periods (Maurin 1993: 71 and 152). However, towards the end of
his life, many colleagues and friends have suggested that new acquaintances took
advantage of Dewaere’s generosity, leaving him with enormous debts at the end of his
life (Maurin 1993: 71,159, 239 and 247).62 In this respect, if Dewaere’s experience can
serve as an example, we could argue that, as with other aspects of the May 1968 dream,
by the beginning of the 1980s the principles of sharing and collectivism were no longer
closely followed (Cole 1998: 28).
One way in which the Café de la Gare and the other café-théâtres challenged dominant
hierarchies was through gender. Women were key to the creation and perpetuation of
the Café de la Gare, and in accordance with the group’s ethos they had mutual control
(Miou-Miou’s role in the Café de la Gare is discussed in Chapter Five). By 1978, when
the café theatres had reached their apogee, a quarter of plays run in these venues were
written and performed by women (Merle 1985: 92). In accordance with this trend, those
running the café theatres began to seek out female talent in order to satisfy the public’s
demand for comedy based on women’s experiences (Merle 1985: 72).
The café-théâtre acting style had further implications for gender. As Forbes (1992: 177)
argues, the groups shifted the way in which the gendered body was constructed on
stage, and latterly on screen. In her discussion of Les Valseuses and the influence it took
from the Café de la Gare, Forbes states that Blier allowed ‘women performers the
freedom not to be beautiful, to employ exaggeration and caricature, and not to rely for
their performance on physical attractiveness but to exploit their other physical
62
Dewaere died leaving 1.5 million francs worth of debt which Elsa Dewaere had to repay (she finally
finished repaying the debt in 1997) (Emsalem 2002: 17).
101
resources’ (Forbes 1992: 177). The method of acting that Blier drew on from the Café
de la Gare, destabilised the way in which, to cite Butler, ‘[G]ender [was] instituted
through the stylization of the body’, via its unconventional use of ‘bodily gestures,
movements, and enactments of various kinds’ (Butler, 1988: 519).
This performance style was transposed on-screen via the bodies of those actors who
made the transition from stage to screen. In the case of Dewaere, this acting style
allowed his body to transgress some of the dominant boundaries of gender and
heterosexuality – as we can see in Themroc and Les Valseuses63. In these films, this
transgression of gender boundaries (albeit problematic, particularly in the case of Les
Valseuses [Forbes 2000: 219-222]), allows for the formation of transient utopian
communities. This idea will be developed further in Chapter Six, which analyses
Themroc and Dewaere’s performance in it. Shortly, I shall discuss how, later in
Dewaere’s career, his relationship with the acting style that he had developed at the
Café de la Gare, became more self-destructive, and aided the creation of onscreen
dystopias, such as those found in Série noire (Corneau, 1979) and Le Grand
Embouteillage (Comencini, 1979).
A central tenet of the Café de la Gare was that, since all members had contributed to its
creation, all members had joint ownership of the enterprise. We can immediately see
how this organisational structure contrasts entirely with that of the Maurin family,
within which we recall Dewaere was positioned as a slave (someone who has no rights
and no control over their employment). For Dewaere, the Café de la Gare represented a
new family, one that allowed him greater personal liberty and independence. It also
63
See Forbes (2000: 219-222) for a discussion of gender and sexuality in Les Valseuses.
102
meant independence from, and disruption of, mainstream theatre and television.
Bouteille proposed in 1969 that:
‘the future of the theatre will take place in the streets, and less and less in the theatre. Since within the
theatre, a system of class is established between spectators and actors, which means that the actors are
used to playing in a way that pulls the strings [of the audience]’. (Bouteille quoted in Merle 1985: 39)
Thus, the Café de la Gare was not only democratic within its organisational structure,
but it also broke down the boundaries between the audience and the actors themselves,
as Forbes observes the ‘theatres created an intimacy and complicity between audience
and performer’ (1992: 174). The anarchism of the Café de la Gare was also seen in its
location. The group renounced the normally formal surroundings of a traditional theatre
for the informality of a café-setting. This informality was also reflected in the kind of
language the performers used. Café-théâtre drew upon slang and popular culture. The
language used was also heavily informed by the Parisian context of most of the caféthéâtres. In terms of performance style, the simple and spatially restricted café settings
forced actors to draw upon their physical resources in order to maximise impact (Forbes
1992: 174). This was completely different to the kinds of spaces Dewaere had worked
in before, thus drawing from him a new form of acting. During the 1960s, for example,
he had worked mainly for television and had acted in some plays in mainstream
theatres. According to Sotha, within this new, organic and creative atmosphere,
Dewaere and his fellow actors drew upon each-others’ techniques:
Patrick and Depardieu borrowed things from each other, […] and Depardieu was more influenced by
Patrick than vice-versa. We rubbed off on one another; it was an enormous mix […]Rufus, Romain,
Coluche and Patrick copied each others attitudes and gesticulations. (Sotha quoted in Lesueur 1992: 48)
103
It is interesting to note here, that whilst others had seen an imbalance within Dewaere’s
relationship with Depardieu, which figured the latter as the weaker party, Sotha
suggests that it was Dewaere who had the greatest creative influence within their
relationship. Sotha’s words certainly point to exploitative behaviour on the part of
Depardieu, which would in fact correlate with other interpretations of their relationship
(see Chapter Five).
For Dewaere the Café de la Gare signalled his re-birth as an actor. All the performers at
the Café de la Gare wrote their own sketches and songs (Lemoîne 1979: 48). Arguably,
it was working in this environment which allowed Dewaere to develop as an actor who
functioned not solely as an object to be manipulated by the director (or by his mother),
but as someone who was able to actively involve themselves in the creative process.
Several directors and actors who worked with Dewaere have noted his ability to
contribute creatively to the production process. Dugowson for example reveals that
Dewaere not only wrote the original score for F. comme Fairbanks, but also contributed
to both dialogue and direction (Maurin 1993: 98-99). The veteran filmmaker Pierre
Granier-Deferre also noted Dewaere’s ability to create gestures and movements
independently, which he felt ranked the young actor alongside more experienced actors
such as Simone Signoret (Maurin 1993: 130).
The influence of the Café de la Gare on Dewaere is seen in other elements of his
performance style. Contrary to how their informal and mobile performances were often
perceived, the members of the Café de la Gare avoided improvisation at all cost (Dicale
2001: 28). Similarly, although many believed that Dewaere’s performance in Série
noire was improvised, it was in fact tightly scripted. Indeed, Corneau had originally
wanted the actors to improvise their roles but Dewaere contested this mode of acting
104
(Maurin 1993: 196). Commenting on this interjection by Dewaere and on his role
throughout the Série noire shoot, Corneau underlines Dewaere’s dynamic creative
function:
When an actor reacts so strongly, so lucidly, you can say that he is responsible for the mise-en-scène. […]
everybody was dependent on him, completely. (Corneau quoted in Maurin 1993: 196-7)
By highlighting the dependence of the crew and cast on Dewaere, Corneau accentuates
the importance of Dewaere to Série noire. Indeed, in terms of both narrative and
performance, the film is centred around Dewaere, to the extent that his role in Série
noire could be seen as a ‘one-man show’. The ‘one man show’ was a key feature of
Café-théâtre. According to Merle (1985: 36), the name is an ironic reference to crooners
such as Yves Montand and was used to describe a monologue, or performance centred
on a sole individual. Monologues can be found in a number of Dewaere’s films in
which Dewaere is the central figure (see for example Beau père), and often serve to
underline his isolation from the rest of society. In Série noire this is clearly the case
from the outset. The film begins with Dewaere (who plays an unsuccessful door-to-door
salesman named Franck Poupart), delivering a performance in an isolated wasteland
situated in the banlieue, to an absent audience. In this sequence, Franck mimes the
actions of a gangster, musicians and a dancer. This sequence will be analysed in detail
in Chapter Eight. In the interim it is important to note two features of this performance.
Firstly, by performing the identities of multiple characters in this sequence, we begin to
see the flexibility of Dewaere’s performing self. We also see the flexibility of his
gendered self, since one of the characters he performs is a woman. The second
important feature of this sequence is that the ‘one-man show’ is delivered, as we have
just noted, to an absent audience, against a desolate backdrop. Thus, in this film, the
‘one-man show’ is no longer a celebratory performance (as it would have been at the
105
Café de la Gare). Instead, it is a performance that appears incongruous to its setting,
and as a result of its setting, exaggerates Franck/ Dewaere’s difference and exposes his
marginality from society.
In Le Grand embouteillage (released in the same year as Série noire [1979]) Dewaere’s
performance can once again be compared with the ‘one man show’. In fact Dewaere
himself described his performance as such in an interview (Dewaere quoted in Murat
1979: 93). Dewaere plays a young man trapped in a traffic jam whilst trying to get to
Rome where his girlfriend waits for him. In all Dewaere’s scenes he is alone in his car,
and is the only actor who has no interaction with the other cast members. His character
becomes increasingly (sexually) frustrated as he his forced to wait longer and longer. As
he works himself up into a climax he becomes violently hysterical and smashes into the
car in front. This performance demonstrates a number of things. Firstly, it reveals the
increasingly self-destructive nature of Dewaere’s performances, a trait that began, we
recall, with his performance in F. comme Fairbanks, and which, as I shall show in
Chapter Eight, reached a frenetic climax in Série noire. The second key point to notice
in relation to Dewaere’s performance in Le Grand embouteillage is that he is the only
actor in this ensemble film who delivers a monologue, a ‘one-man show’. All the other
actors perform in duos (for example Annie Girardot and Fernando Rey) or small groups
(for example Miou-Miou, Depardieu and Ugo Tognazzi). In contrast, Dewaere spends
the entirety of the film talking to himself, on his own in his car. As he becomes more
and more frantic and starts to crash into the back of the car in front, onlookers shout
‘That guy’s mad!’ Consequently, as in Série noire, Dewaere’s exaggerated acting style
isolates him and distinguishes him as different, even dangerous – a quality of his
performance I will examine in more detail in the next section of this chapter.
106
Thus, as Dewaere’s career progressed during the 1970s, his ‘one-man shows’ were no
longer a positive expression of his liberation as an actor and as an individual, but rather
the opposite: - a marker of his isolation and sense of marginality. Within the context of
the Café de la Gare these solos had been positive sites of resistance, however as
Dewaere’s career developed and they became part of his acting repertoire, they became
performative sites of exclusion. Dewaere’s ‘one-man shows’ became a grotesque
version of themselves that began to highlight Dewaere’s alterity (i.e. his difference) and
his estrangement from mainstream society. Via his excessive performances and a
combination of wild movements and an uncontrolled use of language, which we witness
in Série noire and Le Grand embouteillage we can see how Dewaere comes to embody
an individual separated from society.
A further crucial point to make in relation to this performance trait (i.e. the ‘one man
show’) is that these excessive performances also distinguished Dewaere from
contemporaneous icons of masculinity and virility, such as Lino Ventura. When
contrasted with an actor like Ventura, who embodies a safe and ‘intelligible’ form of
masculinity via his restrained and powerful performances, Dewaere is positioned as
unsafe and ‘unintelligible’ – a direct threat to the legitimisation of patriarchy. We recall
that according to Butler since ‘certain kinds of “gender identities” fail to conform to the
norms of cultural intelligibility’ for example those projected by Ventura, ‘they appear
only as developmental failures or logical impossibilities within that domain’ (Butler
1999: 24). The ‘one-man show’ marks Dewaere’s gendered body as a developmental
failure, a threatening figure at the margins that must be excluded.
Merle has argued that the demise of the café-théâtre culture began at the beginning of
the 1980s. The movement’s dissolution thus coincides with Dewaere’s own death.
107
Merle suggests that there were two major reasons for the decline of the café-théâtres.
The first reason was legislative. In 1977 the GRISS (Groupement des institutions
sociales du spectacle) took certain figurehead café-théâtres (including the Café de la
Gare) to court. GRISS alleged that, due to the ambiguous status of these venues (part
café, part performance space) the owners had managed to avoid their responsibilities
vis-à-vis tax contributions. Although GRISS’s original attempt to make the caféthéâtres pay failed, in 1980 they succeeded in forcing them to pay taxes going back to
the date of their opening. Most café-théâtres (including the Café de la Gare) were able
to sustain themselves, however some, for example La Sélénité, were forced to close
(Merle 1985: 33-34).
According to Merle, the second most significant reason for the café-théâtres’ demise
was creative. He suggests that from 1980 onwards the artistic quality of the caféthéâtres deteriorated. Merle argues that in contrast to the groundbreaking creative
approach of the café-théâtres in the 1970s, performances at the beginning of the 1980s
had stagnated and lacked innovation. Furthermore, he claims that audiences no longer
accepted the amateurism of the performers and the cobbled-together venues. The
cumulative result of these factors was that many café-théâtres fell into obscurity. Sotha
describes below the specific impact it had on the Café de la Gare:
Today […] in 1981, we have won the audience of the Folies Bergères, and of Châtelet etc. So, sometimes,
at performances, that gives us a weird sensation […] Without a doubt, we have changed audiences, and
people come to the Café de la Gare because it’s a place that people go to. (Sotha quoted in Merle 1985:
63)
Sotha’s surprise that the Café de la Gare’s public had changed (become more
mainstream) just goes to show how she at least believed in the myth of marginality even
108
though the theatre group had ceased to be so (in terms of audience and geographical
location).
A third factor that we might add to Merle’s argument would be the progressive
deterioration of the May ’68 dream. Although, as Forbes notes, café-théâtre was not
solely a product of May ’68, ‘the movement was given a huge impetus by the May
events and the social and political climate which they created’ (Forbes, 1992: 174). The
performances were influenced by the jubilant spirit of these events and, given the
modest backgrounds of several of the key performers, the climate arguably contributed
to the sense of determined optimism which can be read in the recollections of those who
started the Café de la Gare. By the beginning of the 1980s this atmosphere had changed
significantly. Mass unemployment (which would only prove to rise under Mitterrand),
had taken its toll – particularly on young people. The new climate of 1981/2 is
encapsulated by Bernard Thomas for Le Canard enchaîné, who notes that following the
so-called revolutions of May ‘68, young people were left with little hope:
Eleven years later, the horizon became overcast; prisons locked up; the technocracy advanced […] The
time for escaped hippies in flowery outfits was over: they were replaced by grey hordes of young
homeless people. (Canard enchaîné quoted in Thomas 1999: 126)
By 1982, the hope that Mitterrand had promised for young people in his electoral
campaign was beginning to fade, unemployment continued to rise and 1968 was but a
distant memory (Thomas 1999: 128). Positioned within this socio-political context it is
perhaps unsurprising that the café-théâtres whose previous performances had been
imbued with jubilant optimism began to disappoint. Throughout the 1970s, Dewaere
remained close to the Café de la Gare and on several occasions returned to perform
109
with Bouteille and Sotha (Esposito 1978: 58). Unlike Miou-Miou and Depardieu, he
had remained loyal to the Café de la Gare. Dewaere commented that:
It feels good to find oneself face to face with the public again. With the cinema you are closed in on
yourself, like in a bubble. There [in the theatre] you immediately sense the reaction of the public. You
discover things that work and which can be used in the cinema. Me, I find […] that it is indispensable for
a cinema actor to do, from time to time, theatre. (Dewaere quoted in Penso 1981: 104)
However, at the beginning of the 1980s, although he remained socially close to its
members he stopped performing with them (Maurin 1993: 76). In so doing some felt he
had cut himself off from his lifeblood (Maurin 1993: 71 and 199 and Esposito 1989:
57). His confidante and co-star in Série noire Myriam Boyer has, for example,
suggested that Dewaere withdrew from working at the Café de la Gare in order to
increase his profile as a film actor. Dewaere was, Boyer alleges, scared to commit
himself to theatre runs for fear of being forgotten and superseded by the likes of
Depardieu (Boyer quoted in Maurin 1993: 205).
In 1982, despair and lack (of money) began to permeate Dewaere’s personal life.
According to close friend Yves Boisset, Dewaere had accrued large debts and had
significant problems in his personal life (Maurin 1993: 173). Moreover, in 1982
Dewaere once again attempted to give up heroin, a process that Elsa alleges put his state
of mind under enormous strain (Emsalem 2002: 16). Dewaere friends, relatives and
colleagues have speculated that it was for these reasons, and surely many others, that on
July 16th 1982, he committed suicide (Maurin, 1993).
110
3. Patrick Dewaere: Star (1974-1982)
This section begins in 1974, the year that Dewaere first came to cinema audiences’
attention. Although Dewaere had already known popularity and public recognition for
his TV role in Jean de la tour miracle (1967), it was Les Valseuses 64that truly launched
him as a future star of French cinema. I will begin this narrative of identity by
discussing a central dynamic within Dewaere’s star persona: violence. I will then also
consider the evolving function of marginality in Dewaere’s identity, which, as I argued
in the last section, originated in his involvement with the Café de la Gare, and
developed alongside his difficult movement between popular and auteur cinema.
Finally, I shall discuss how, during the course of his career, the fragile and marginal
elements of this star persona were gradually accentuated and, indeed, exploited.
Austin has rightly underlined the vulnerability inherent to Dewaere’s star persona, and
also notes how this dimension became more and more apparent as Dewaere’s career
developed (Austin 2003b: 81-83). However, Austin’s suggestion that Dewaere’s
vulnerability was not threatening is misleading. Firstly, vulnerability is threatening to
hegemonic masculinity since it undermines the legitimacy of patriarchy (i.e. an
institution that is solid, stable and unchanging). Secondly, I would argue that Dewaere’s
vulnerability is constantly underscored by unpredictable violence and therefore poses a
further threat. Jonathan Rutherford has suggested in his study of masculinity that
‘[v]iolence is a common response when masculine identities are under threat’
(Rutherford, 1996: 29). Dewaere’s star identity coincides with this observation since, as
we shall see, violence often emerges either towards himself or others, when his
64
Released 20th March 1974.
111
gendered identity is challenged. However, unlike the masculinities that Rutherford is
referencing here (such as Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone), which
‘suggest that […] masculinity is about control and mastery over others’ (1996: 29), the
violence that Dewaere embodies on (and off) screen is uncontrolled.
Austin notes that, with the exception of the incident in 1980 when Dewaere hit a
journalist for disclosing the details of his wedding to Elsa65, Dewaere was not
characterised as a violent by the press:
[F]or the most part, the reassurance associated with Dewaere was expressed in both films and the press as
a vulnerability which, unlike Depardieu’s, was rarely obscured by violence or menace. (Austin 2003b:
81)
Contrary to this observation, I would argue that right from the early stages of his career
the threat of violence is a key element of Dewaere’s star persona. Prior to 1980, reports
of Dewaere’s violence had leaked to the press and he was privately known for his
violent temper.66 Numerous interviewees in Maurin’s biography of Dewaere suggest
that he was violent. Nearly all add though that this violence is underpinned by
vulnerability (Maurin 1993: 14, 152, 186-7, 202). Moreover, this violence appears to
have been carried across on-screen. Unlike Depardieu’s hybrid masculinity (to be
explored in the next chapter), which is controlled and contained, from 1975 onwards
Dewaere displayed both vulnerability and violence. As Rutherford suggests:
For men a strong authoritative masculine persona is based on the repression of vulnerability and
dependency. The subsequent balancing act between these two facets of men’s sexual identity, and their
65
66
The de Nussac affair (see Chapter Nine of this thesis).
See (Maillet, 1977: 23), (Emsalem, 2002: 15) and (Maurin, 1993: 169).
112
incompatible demands, creates tensions and contradictions, that threaten the myth of masculinity’s
seamless quality. (Rutherford 1996: 28)
As I shall show below, these contradictory qualities remain unresolved in Dewaere’s
films and clearly threaten ‘the myth of masculinity’ as a result. Thus, contrary to
Austin’s argument (2003b: 78), which underestimates the menace of this lack of
resolution within Dewaere’s masculinity67, we shall see in the chapters that follow that
Dewaere’s star persona was threatening for the contemporary spectator.
In La Meilleure façon de marcher
(Miller, 1976) Dewaere’s character
Marc displays a form of violent
masochism, which, by mixing
codes of virility, violence and
vulnerability within the star body,
complicates readings of his
gendered identity. Dewaere plays
FIG 5: Patrick Bouchitey and Patrick Dewaere in
La Meilleure façon de marcher (Miller, 1976)
Marc, a sadistic recreational
assistant at a children’s summer camp. On discovering his colleague Philippe secretly
trying on women’s clothes and make up, Marc embarks upon a campaign to undermine
and torture Philippe (thus responding to a threat to masculinity with violence, in the
way that Rutherford describes). From the first scene he appears, Marc is culturally
coded as violently masculine. He is seen barking orders to his group of children, forcing
them to march whilst chanting. Meanwhile, the other groups of children (including
those led by Philippe) run to shelter from the torrential rain (displaying more obvious
113
signs of vulnerability). Marc’s physical appearance accentuates his virility. In contrast
with Philippe who wears softly cut pastel shirts, Marc wears boxy shirts with pockets on
the chest which accentuate his muscular torso.68 Similarly, Marc’s shorts are also tight,
accentuating his buttocks and genitals. However, this outward display of the
stereotypical ‘bodily gestures, movements, and enactments’ of masculinity (to
paraphrase Butler69), are, we learn as the film progresses, misleading.
We quickly see that Marc’s sadism extends to his fellow, weaker staff members.
Initially this appears to be restricted to verbal abuse. However, in the context of his
bullying of Philippe, it quickly develops a physically threatening and, to a certain
extent, sexual dimension. For example, when Marc taunts Philippe for his sexual
inexperience his comments are directed at Philippe’s girlfriend’s sexual performance.
Moving closer and closer to Philippe, Marc asks Philippe if Chantal is a ‘good fuck’ and
if she ‘sucks’. The scene ends when Marc violently throws Philippe out of his room.
Throughout the film the ambiguity seen in this exchange is made more and more
apparent. When Marc addresses Philippe he does so both with violence and seduction.
Marc fixes Philippe with his gaze and speaks in a soft voice with a half smile, which is
accentuated by his moustache and slightly open mouth.
The violence of Dewaere’s performance escalates during the course of the film. In a
later scene Marc throws a fully dressed Philippe into the swimming pool in front of the
whole camp. He then proceeds to ‘rescue’ Philippe, before taking him to the bathroom
where he forces him to vomit and then eat it. This particular encounter marks a pivotal
moment for Philippe, who, at the camp’s end of summer costume ball, confronts Marc
directly with the latter’s fear of difference, ambiguity and the feminine, which he has
A number of review note Dewaere’s imposing physique in this film (see L’Aurore 1976 and Baron
1976)
69
See (Butler 1988: 519)
68
114
previously sought to control through his violent manipulation of Philippe. Dressed as a
woman, Philippe pursues Marc (who is dressed as a matador, matching the bullfighting
poster which hangs above his bed), and begins to make advances towards him. At this
stage we clearly see that Marc holds conflicting sexual feelings for Philippe. As they
dance together Philippe makes increasingly sexualised gestures towards Marc before
FIG 6: The Masked Ball (Dewaere and Bouchitey)
kissing him. Marc’s prolonged hesitation before violently lashing out at Philippe reveals
his conflict.
Ultimately, despite the obvious signs of virility that Marc displays (sport, physicality,
domineering leadership), Philippe is able to undermine Marc’s masculinity irrevocably.
Philippe stabs Marc in the thigh with a knife (a phallic symbol of violent power), and
thus turns Marc’s violence against him – revealing the latter’s fragility. Marc’s
vulnerability (which had been cloaked by his over-identification with the masculine) is
thus exposed and the myth of his gendered identity pierced, rendering it unstable.
Moreover, Marc’s hesitation as Philippe gestures to kiss him underlines the ambiguity
of his desire for Philippe, which is seen earlier in the film via Marc’s violent overinvestment in his relationship with Philippe. What we thus see, at the climax of the
film, is that Marc fails to embody the hermetically sealed masculinity and
heterosexuality that he appears to project earlier in the film. This failure is compounded
by the last sequence of the film. The film ends with Marc and Philippe meeting years
later (we assume) by coincidence. Philippe and his girlfriend, now happy and at ease,
look at an apartment that Marc is acting as agent for. Ultimately, it is Marc who is
115
positioned as the outsider to the couple’s heterosexual union. Philippe is assured and
confident, whilst Marc is clearly still enamoured by this man he used to bully.
According to Claude Miller, it was Dewaere’s performance and star body that created
the ambiguity that is at the core of Marc’s gendered and sexual identities:
‘He [Dewaere] added a degree of physical fitness, he gave him a lot more ambiguity than he had on
paper, where his character was fairly negative. Patrick also gave him his troubling marginality, which did
not render the character more negative, on the contrary, but which gave him a certain uncertainty with
regards to the problem that Bouchitey posed him’. (Miller quoted in Maurin 1993: 148)
Here Miller highlights the conflicting qualities that Dewaere brought to the role, which
produce uncertainty and ambiguity at the heart of his character Marc. It is worth noting
moreover that the sporty quality, which Dewaere brought to this role, is present in
several of his films. Austin (2003b: 83) argues that Dewaere’s frequent references to
sport in his films signify leisure and therefore associate him with classical stardom.
However, I would argue, in the case of La Meilleure façon de marcher the reference to
sport and physicality is in fact a signifier of aggressive, yet unstable, virility rather than
leisure. A person at leisure is someone who has freedom to do as they please. Contrary
to this definition, in La Meilleure façon de marcher, Marc’s display of virility through
sport is laboured, since, in this performance he has to work against other, more
ambiguous, impulses within himself.
We thus see that in La Meilleure façon de marcher Dewaere’s machismo is
inconsistent. Dewaere’s violent virility reoccurs in later films. However, whereas in
films such as Les Valseuses, La Meilleure façon de marcher and Catherine et cie this
violence is directed towards others, from 1976 onwards this violence tends to be
116
directed against himself. There are one or two exceptions. Notably, La Marche
triomphale in which Dewaere plays a sadistic military officer who abuses his wife, and
Série noire in which Dewaere’s character kills three people. However, crucially in Série
noire, as we shall see in Chapter Eight, Frank/Dewaere’s violent acts actually propel his
own self-destruction. Here Dewaere reflects on his relationship with violence via his
characters, with particular reference to Série noire:
‘To be an actor, it’s a funny thing. For example, in Série noire I kill a whole load of people […] It was the
first time that I had killed in the cinema. Of course, it’s only gestures, but it’s me who does them. I
became a bit of a killer myself.’ (Dewaere quoted in Pantel 1979: 20)
We might suggest that, when Dewaere reflects on how he ‘became a bit of a killer
myself’, that this is not literal but instead refers to the increasing physical and emotional
violence that he inflicted upon himself. For example in Série noire, Dewaere directs
violence at himself, both on-screen through his character’s actions and off-screen in the
consequences of his violent performance. In fact Dewaere’s star-persona became
increasingly associated with self-abuse in the last three years of his career. Dewaere’s
drug addiction was public knowledge (de Nussac 1980: 15), and his suicide in 1982
would irreversibly connect his death with self-abuse. This self-inflicted violence situates
Dewaere permanently outside of the principles of hegemonic masculinity, which values
physical and mental completeness and punishes perceived weakness.
In the last three years of his life, Dewaere’s film roles also forced him to encounter
various manifestations of self-abuse on-screen. In Un Mauvais fils he plays a recovering
heroin addict who, when rejected by his father slips back into drug abuse (albeit
temporarily). In Hôtel des Amériques Dewaere’s character Gilles gets violently drunk
and lies in the sea at night, forcing Deneuve to rescue him. Finally, in Dewaere’s last
117
role Paradis pour tous,70 he plays a man who throws himself from a building in order to
commit suicide, yet fails to kill himself and is instead bound to a wheelchair as a result
of the fall.
During his career Dewaere oscillated between popular and auteur cinema. However, it
is in Dewaere’s auteur films that the violence of his star body is most in evidence. In
fact, the self-inflicted violence that emerges increasingly within Dewaere’s characters in
the last three years of his career was, I shall argue, developed specifically by the auteur
filmmakers he worked with during this period. I shall first look at the way in which
Dewaere’s relationship with popular and auteur cinema began in the first few years of
his career, before looking at Dewaere’s relationship with auteur filmmakers, such as
Blier, in more detail.
Unlike Depardieu, whose movement between popular and auteur cinema has been not
only smooth, but has directly contributed to the longevity of his career71, Dewaere did
not move between these two forms of cinema with ease. Following the success of Les
Valseuses, Dewaere’s career was slow to take off, and, in 1974, he waited seven or eight
months before he received the offer to work on Catherine et compagnie (Esposito 1978:
57). Although the film was not, in the end, a success, it arguably sought to categorise
itself as ‘popular’ given its subject matter and the participation of pop culture star Jane
Birkin.72 Two factors improved the situation for Dewaere: firstly, his Dugowson films
in 1974 and 1975 and secondly, his involvement in the policier Adieu poulet, which
70
Dewaere finished shooting Paradis pour tous shortly before is death in spring 1982.
See Vincendeau’s discussion of Depardieu, which lays out the ways in which the actor successfully
moved between popular and auteur cinema (2000: 223-230).
72
I am following here Richard Dyer and Ginette Vincendeau’s basic definition of the popular as ‘things
that are commercially successful and/ or to things that are produced by, or express the thoughts, values
and feelings of, “the people” (Dyer and Vincendeau, 1992: 2). We might assume that Birkin falls into the
popular given her association with her husband the popstar Serge Gainsbourg and their hit single in 1969:
Je t’aime…moi non plus. Moreover, her status during the 1960s/1970s as an icon of popular fashion
culture also places her within this category.
71
118
Dewaere secured following Catherine et compagnie (Esposito 1978: 58). Whilst
Dewaere saw Dugowson’s films, alongside La Meilleure façon de marcher as auteur
films (Penso 1981: 85)73, Adieu poulet was a clear example of popular cinema.74 Thus,
the films Dewaere made between 1974-5 identified him with two loose categories of
films: auteur and popular. However, Dewaere himself found it difficult to identify
himself with either. For F.comme Fairbanks, Dewaere was reluctant to take the role
since he felt that it would position him in an overly negative register, which he felt
might alienate his audience from him. Dewaere was, however, seduced by the fact that
the role would provide him with his first opportunity to play a leading man, and finally
conceded (Maurin 1993: 97). Similarly, Dewaere hesitated before taking on Adieu
poulet because it required him to play a policeman, a role which would go against his
purportedly libertarian outlook (Gauthey 1975: 11). He eventually took the role because
he wanted to work with Ventura, and because he believed that the policeman he plays in
Adieu poulet was not stereotyped.
Consequently, even when starring in popular films, such as Adieu poulet, Dewaere
avoided unambiguously heroic roles. This view is corroborated by a statement that
Dewaere made in a promotional interview for Adieu poulet, when he declared that he
didn’t ‘want to play heroes’ (Gauthey, 1975: 11). His desire to play anti-heroes would
ultimately inform the way his star persona developed. After F. comme Fairbanks the
majority of Dewaere’s roles embodied negative characteristics, such as violence, selfabuse, unemployment, drug-abuse and criminality. Indeed, following the making of
Série noire Dewaere professed his desire to push the boundaries further in his
73
I am reluctant to call them auteur films myself. In terms of subject matter there is a clear link between
Dugowson’s two films. However, there is no clear consistency in style across the two films. The same
could be said for Miller’s films. We can, though, assume that the public’s contemporary interpretation of
Miller and Dugowson films as the work of ‘auteurs’ would be the same as Dewaere’s.
74
The film is a policier (one of the two most popular genres of French film). It also stars Lino Ventura an
actor closely associated with popular cinema, and was successful at the box office (555,000 tickets sold).
119
performances and play marginal characters. He stated: ‘I want to go even further (as in
Série noire) and play traitor roles, monsters, degenerates, but on the condition that
people stay with me!’ (Murat 1979: 92), Dewaere’s statement reveals the conflict that
surrounded his choice of roles. Dewaere desired the approbation of the public and
sought this through popular cinema, and yet, at the same time, he sought to play roles
that would be uncomfortable to watch, even threatening to the spectator. It is also
important to note that these last roles, which saw him play the marginal characters
Dewaere lists in his statement above, would have caused him to draw on painful
memories to create these characters (we recall that when confronted with a sad role
Dewaere would, to paraphrase the actor, give all that was sad in him and attach himself
to all that he found sad [Dewaere quoted in Alès, 1982: 8]). For this reason, one
director, Yves Boisset chose only to cast Dewaere in ‘positive roles’ (La Clé sur la
porte, Le Juge Fayard dit le sheriff):
As I knew Patrick well, I was aware of the interaction that existed between his roles and his life. So, I had
promised myself that I would only make him play positive roles: for me, to let him play ‘loser’ roles, it
was almost a bad deed. He identified so much with his characters. (Boisset quoted in Maurin 1993: 172)
It was in fact only in Mille milliards de dollars (Verneuil, 1981), and his two films with
Boisset – Le Juge Fayard dit le sheriff and La Clé sur la porte – that Dewaere
temporarily shed his marginal persona. In these three films he plays a judge, a doctor
and a journalist respectively and thus embodies figures of power and responsibility,
characteristics that are unfamiliar to his other roles.
120
What becomes increasingly clear is that, albeit with some exceptions, popular75film
directors chose rather to cast Dewaere in ‘positive’ roles. In contrast, however, in his
work with auteurs, the marginal aspects of his persona are unforgivingly highlighted,
and indeed, exploited. As Blier observes below:
There was a very obvious thing going on in French cinema at that time, that the directors took advantage
of Patrick’s pain, of his sufferings […] to tell stories in which they needed a guy like that. (Blier quoted
in Maurin 1993: 262)
Certain directors thus extracted the suffering that was inherent to Dewaere’s star body
in order to express the subject matter of their films. They also exploited Dewaere’s own
attraction to negative characters, which he felt would challenge his acting skills (Maurin
1993: 148). In the last (press) interview Dewaere gave before his death he revealed the
effect these roles had had on him, and stated that he was now seeking more positive
roles:
‘Its nearly two years now that I have been playing characters who are a bit out of it and I have to say that
I am fed up with it. When you play characters like this, it reflects back onto your life. If you keep on
acting unhappiness, then you end up being unhappy. So it has done me some good to start playing another
type of character.’ (Dewaere quoted in Alès 1982: 6-7)76
Several critics have noted the irony that Dewaere’s last film cast him as a hero, the
boxer Marcel Cerdan (Austin, 2003b: 87 and Paris Match, 1982: 31). Regrettably,
Dewaere was never able to fulfil his desire to play the more positive roles he craved. He
committed suicide the day before filming of Édith et Marcel began.
Mille millards de dollars, Le Juge Fayard dit le sheriff and La Clé sur la porte were ‘popular’ both in
terms of their box office figures,(321,111, 511,000 and 447,000 respectively) genre (comedy and policier)
and stars (La Clé sur la porte featured Annie Girardot, one of the most popular French actresses of the
1970s)
76
Here Dewaere is referring to his role in Édith et Marcel.
75
121
Conclusion
To summarise, in the first narrative of identity ‘Patrick Maurin’, we saw that Dewaere
remained at the margins of his family, in part as a result of his uncertain paternity. In the
second narrative of identity, which looked at Dewaere’s involvement with the Café de
la Gare, I have shown how Dewaere occupied the space of the marginalised via his
performance style. Whilst still working within the protection of this group, the ‘oneman show’ evolved into an empowering expression of individuality from the margins –
especially for him. However, once transposed onto screen this performance style
marked Dewaere as threatening and isolated. The third narrative outlined how violence
was key to his star identity. I also showed how Dewaere embodied characters that are
marginalised as a result of socio-economic fallibility, drug addiction and
unemployment. Finally, I suggested that this representation of marginality on-screen
drew on Dewaere’s own personal torment and marginality.
In the next two chapters I shall provide the third set of contexts to Dewaere’s star body.
By looking at five contemporaneous star bodies I shall examine the ways in which they
do, or do not, endorse hegemonic gender identities and how these identities play against
Dewaere’s own gendered body on and off-screen.
122
Chapter Four
1970s Star Bodies:
Lino Ventura and
Gérard Depardieu
123
Chapter Four
Dewaere in Context: 1970s Star Bodies
Lino Ventura and Gérard Depardieu
Chapters One and Two laid out the first two sets of contexts that need to be considered
in relation to Dewaere’s star body (the socio-political and theoretical contexts). These
chapters provided me with which to analyse Dewaere’s gendered star body. In the first
chapter I highlighted three dimensions of Giscardian political culture that are of central
importance to this investigation of Dewaere’s gendered identity. Firstly, the conflict
between liberalism and conservatism that was inherent to Giscard D’Estaing’s politics,
evident both in the president’s leadership style and in his economic and social policy.
Secondly, the impact of the feminist movement on the fabric of French society. Thirdly,
the increasing movement post-68 towards individual, rather than collective struggles,
which came in part as a result of changes that took place within left-wing politics
(notably the fall and rise of the Socialist Party and the wane in support for the PCF
[French Communist Party]). In the second chapter I established a theoretical framework
with which to analyse Dewaere’s gendered star body, drawing on cultural and social
theories. These theoretical approaches will help me to unpick the ways in which
Dewaere’s gendered star body changed over time. In Chapter Three I constructed a
critical biography of Dewaere’s life, dividing it into three separate narratives of identity.
Within these three narratives I began to address the ways in which Dewaere’s gendered
star body could be viewed as ‘unintelligible’ or marginal to hegemonic masculinity.
However, in order to understand in more detail the ways in which Dewaere’s gendered
star body could be considered in this way I now need to look at contemporaneous stars.
These star bodies will provide a counter point to Dewaere’s own gendered identity.
124
In this chapter and the next I shall examine the positioning of Dewaere’s star body in
relation to five key French stars from the 1970s. It will address the ways in which each
star relates to Dewaere’s gendered star body and the manner in which they engage with
Giscardian political culture. To paraphrase Richard Dyer (1998: 34), the chapter
investigates how these stars from the 1970s ‘manage’ and ‘resolve’ contradictions
within and between ideologies. The chapter ultimately serves to open up a discussion of
how, through his gendered identity, Dewaere himself managed or revealed conflicting
dimensions of political culture in the Giscardian era.
The next two chapters will focus on Lino Ventura and Gérard Depardieu, then
Catherine Deneuve, Annie Girardot, Miou-Miou. Each star acted alongside Dewaere in
films that are integral to his filmography, and each provided Dewaere with important
reference points in the configuration of his masculinity (both on and off screen in the
case of Miou-Miou and to a certain extent Depardieu). Although Ventura, Girardot and
Deneuve each only starred with Dewaere in one film, as key figures within popular
1970s French cinema, they provide crucial benchmarks against which to judge and
analyse Dewaere’s masculinity. Each contributed to 1970s film culture either through
their innovative acting styles (Depardieu and Miou-Miou), their association with key
generic trends (Girardot and Ventura) or through their cultural significance across a
variety of media (Deneuve).
Despite their importance, paradoxically, within the context of their 1970s careers, these
stars have been, to a greater or lesser extent, (with the exception of Depardieu and more
recently Girardot77), neglected by current studies of French stars. This is consistent with
the overall paucity of critical attention given to this era of French cinema, and
77
See Vincendeau (2000 and 2007).
125
particularly to the actors associated with it. There have been some recent studies of
individual 1970s stars (see Austin [2003], Le Gras [2004], Hayward [2004], and
Vincendeau [2007]) but studies of key stars from 1970s popular cinema such as Ventura
and Miou-Miou are still missing. This chapter therefore serves both to provide
Dewaere’s star body with a filmic context and also to suggest new avenues of research
in French star studies.
In these two chapters I will look at the work of these five 1970s French stars, and
consider the ways in which they interact with Dewaere’s gendered identity. All five
embody, as we would expect from the star body, contradictions. In my discussion of
Ventura I examine the ways in which his star body articulates the conservative aspects
of 1970s French socio-political culture. Next to Dewaere, Ventura’s gendered body
offers a reassuring and stable masculine identity, which appeals to both the workingclass and young men. Like Ventura, Deneuve’s 1970s star body represents the
undercurrent of conservatism that existed within the ostensibly liberalist politics of the
1970s. However, whilst Ventura’s masculinity remains stable in the presence of
Dewaere, Deneuve’s gendered identity is clearly destabilised by his presence in Hôtel
des Amériques. In discussing Girardot I will look at her contradictory embodiement of
‘popular’ feminist impulses. Although there are clear limitations to Girardot’s
subversiveness in several of her 1970s films, in La Clé sur la porte (her main film with
Dewaere), Girardot’s character is able to live out her desires whilst maintaining both her
career, her lover and her family. Dewaere too, we will note, is perhaps marked by
Girardot’s presence in this film. In La Clé sur la porte Dewaere embodies a progressive,
yet confident, form of of masculinity, which constrasts with the implosion of Dewaere’s
gendered identity that occurs in Hôtel des Amériques. As with Girardot, Miou-Miou
also embodies, via her on and off-screen star persona, many of the socio-political
126
changes that occurred with respect to women’s lives. However, whilst Dewaere and
Girardot accommodate each other’s identities, in Miou-Miou’s films with Dewaere, the
latter is represented as emasculated and vulnerable (particularly in F. comme
Fairbanks). Similarly, when positioned in the context of Depardieu’s star body,
Dewaere’s gendered star body appears vulnerable, weak and often damaged. This
representation of Dewaere in relation to Depardieu has persisted, as we shall note, even
after Dewaere’s death in retrospective constructions of their relationship, rendering
Dewaere eternally overpowered by Depardieu’s all-consuming star body.
127
Lino Ventura
Because my focus in this chapter is Dewaere’s star body in relation to contemporary 70s
stars, I will refer largely to Ventura’s star persona in the 1970s, but reference will
briefly be made to his early career, which began in 1954. Originally born in Italy,
Ventura arrived in France when he was a child. Ventura went on to become one of the
most popular stars of the 1970s. As I shall argue, despite the seemingly liberal climate
of the times, Lino Ventura nonetheless embodied the conservative impulses that (as we
saw in Chapter 1) were so thinly disguised within liberalised Giscardian France.
Furthermore, I shall discuss how Ventura’s gendered identity acts as a counterpoint to
other 1970s masculinities such as Dewaere’s.
Ventura starred with Dewaere in one film during his career: Adieu poulet (GranierDeferre,1974). Adieu poulet follows the experience of Vergeat (played by Ventura), a
police detective who attempts to uncover the shady dealings of a corrupt electoral
candidate embroiled in the murder of one of Vergeat’s colleagues. Dewaere plays
Lefèvre a policeman working as Vergeat’s younger partner. As we shall see, the film
reveals important dimensions to Ventura’s star persona: the policier genre, the value
and importance of work, a reactionary masculinity and his position as a father figure.
Prior to his cinematic career Ventura had been a successful wrestler (he was European
middleweight champion in 1950), but his career was ended by serious injury. This
career as a wrestler would serve as a constant reference point in the construction of his
masculinity both on and off-screen – a point to which I shall return. In 1954, with no
prior acting experience, Ventura was asked to star alongside Jean Gabin in Becker’s
film Touchez-pas au grisbi (Becker, 1954). The film cemented Ventura’s centrality to
128
the policier genre and his distinctive acting style. This first film established Ventura as
an icon of this genre. He would remain as such right in to the 1970s when the policier
was one of the two most successful genres of the decade. 78 Critics have frequently
found parallels between Gabin and Ventura’s acting style (See for example Dehée 2000:
118-123; and Vallée 1980: 19). Like Gabin (Vincendeau 2000: 72-73), Ventura displays
solid, restrained and stable performances that make the most of his stocky frame and
rugged features. His characters are rarely violent, and yet violence is implied in his
gestures and his features (Ventura’s nose is clearly broken).
Critics, such as Stella Bruzzi (1998) and Bill Marshall (1992: 38), have argued that the
policier often functions as a vehicle for its male protagonists’ identity crises – this is
certainly true for Dewaere, but not, as we shall see, for Ventura. Bruzzi argues that this
crisis is compounded by the overvaluation of their physical appearance and their
correspondent narcissism. Paradoxically, as I shall make clear, by way of contrast,
Ventura’s characters are on the whole assured in their identity. Moreover, they are not
narcissitic, nor is their appearance overvalued. In this way, Ventura opposes fellow
policier stars such as Delon whose image is frequently subject to overvaluation. Instead,
Ventura’s costumes often complement his acting style. Ventura’s key sartorial motifs
are a singlebreasted jacket with thin black tie and a straight, mid-length trench coat. The
suit itself, as Bruzzi points out, is ‘[s]upposedly symbolic of traditional manliness, this
ubiquitous garment, as one writer suggests, “denotes holding back personal feelings, or
self-restraint”’ (Bruzzi 1997: 69). Unlike the feminising belted trench coat frequently
worn by Delon or the doublebreasted jacket worn by Gabin, the single breasted cut
78
Although Jean-Paul Belmondo and Alain Delon are often more closely associated with the policier,
their policier filmographies were actually no more prolific than Ventura’s (Forbes 1992: 54).78 Many
policiers of the 1970s exploited the iconography of earlier French policiers. This included clear reference
to ‘the acting tradition established by Jean Gabin’ in policiers during the 1950s, seen for example in
Touchez-pas au grisbi (Forbes 1992: 53). Forbes describes Gabin’s acting style as ‘one of restraint and
suppressed violence’ (Forbes 1992: 55). In her comparisons with Gabin, Forbes concentrates on
Belmondo and Delon.
129
accentuates Ventura’s stocky frame. Thus both Ventura’s costume and performance
signify control and virility.
Through acting and costume, Ventura’s performance projected a solid and virile
masculinity which worked against dominant images of masculinity in post-68 France.
Phil Powrie (1997: 8-12) has argued that the 1970s saw the beginnings of a crisis in
masculinity in France, and cites the women’s movement and socio-economic change as
the core reasons for this predicament. Against this backdrop of change and
deterioration, Ventura’s star body displayed ideals and institutions which were
apparently otherwise becoming fragmented during the 1970s: i.e. work, the family and
the fatherland. In this way, therefore, Ventura displays continuity with France’s political
past. The triumvirate fatherland, work, family which he so clearly embodies, recalls the
‘National Revolution’ (famille, travail, patrie) instituted by Pétain and his Vichy
government, a triumvirate that was heavily coded against the transgressive body and
which sought, amongst other things, to regenerate the morals of France’s youth
(Hayward 1993: 125-126). Ventura’s star persona similarly functions, both on and offscreen, to re-instate past moral values through the triumvirate of family, work,
fatherland which he embodies.
The workplace was an unstable space during the 1970s.79 For most, therefore, the
process of work could no longer be seen as a safe signifier of (in particular, working
class) masculinity. However, contrary to this socio-political context, work was central
Although Giscard D’Estaing’s government had attempted to improve the lot of France’s workers,
through the upgrading of manual work (Frears 1981: 155), the success of this was debatable, as a result of
the automisation of the workplace and the resultant fall in demand for labour (Magraw 1993: 85). We
recall that at the end of the decade France witnessed high unemployment, partly as a result of the petrol
crisis and ensuing global recession of the mid-1970s (we recall that during Giscard D’Estaing’s
presidency unemployment rose from 2.3% to 7.3% (Wright 1984: 22). The increased presence of women
within the workplace also had a significant impact on the availability of jobs and arguably altered the
providor role of the man in families and couples. In addition, we can speculate that the increase in women
workers also had an effect on the identity of workplaces, which are, according to McDowell ‘constructed
as gendered places’ (1999: 144).
79
130
to Ventura’s identity. Critics frequently describe Ventura as an ouvrier or worker and
Ventura himself always referred to acting as his metier (job) and rejected the title of
star. In his films, Ventura’s characters are nearly always situated at work (be that the
work of the gangster or of a policeman). Rarely do we see him situated in the domestic
space, the exception being La Gifle (Pinoteau, 1974) in which, as we shall see, specific
challenges are made to Ventura’s masculinity as a result of this positioning.80
As I shall now go on to demonstrate, the traditional family structure inherent to
Ventura’s off-screen star persona is consistent with the fatherland/ nation he embodies
on-screen. During this decade of apparent liberalism, Ventura played characters who
controlled those around them. In Le Clan des siciliens (Verneuil, 1969) and Cadaveri
eccelenti Ventura is constantly positioned at the centre of the frame, and the entire
police investigations in both films are controlled by and revolve around Ventura’s
character. Unlike Dewaere (whose relationship with fatherhood is fragile, Austin 2003b:
55-59), Ventura is, like Gabin, able to adopt a dominant form of patriarchal authority
within the policier genre.81
On Ventura’s death, George Marchais (leader of the French communist party and candidate in the 1981
presidential elections) claimed that the working class identified particularly with Ventura’s star persona
(Dehée 2000: 122). Dehée points out that there is a contradiction in the working class’ identification with
Ventura due to his right-wing political positioning. Dehée’s explanation for this ostensibly peculiar
spectatorial identification is that during the 1970s the French workforce became increasingly influenced
by ‘cultural conservatism’ (Dehée 2000: 123). It might also be linked to what Ross refers to as the
‘consolidation of a massive French, urban middle class’ a phenomenon which occurred during the 1950s
and 1960s ‘under the auspices of capitalist modernisation’ (1998: 138). This massive middle-class shared
an aspirational outlook and brought together previously disparately classed bodies, thus ironing out some
of the differences that existed between the middle-class and ‘the politically dangerous classes: the
(potentially militant) working-class and the traditional bourgeoisie’ (Ross 1998: 138). In his embodiment
of mixed class values, Ventura’s star body is linked to this evolution in class which continued into the
1970s.
81
In Le Clan des siciliens Gabin is crime boss Vittorio whilst Ventura plays Commissaire Le Goff, the
inspector charged with the investigation into the dealings of Vittorio’s family. Delon features as Sartet, an
outsider to Vittorio’s family who initially works for Vittorio but eventually betrays him when he has an
affair with Vittorio’s son’s wife. Sartet’s act of treachery threatens the autonomy and reproduction of the
family structure, and therefore the structure of patriarchy which in this instance positions Gabin’s Vittorio
at its centre. However, Gabin manages to maintain his authority as the patriarch over Delon’s character,
by eventually killing him and punishing him for his transgression. In contrast to Delon, Ventura is
positioned, through parallel editing, as Gabin’s equal, and further it is Le Goff who ultimately topples
Vittorio. At the end of the film, as Le Goff leads Vittorio away, the policeman and the gangster are held
side by side in long shot, indicating a sense of equality reached between the two characters/ star bodies.
80
131
Although both Gabin and Ventura adopt the role of patriarch within Le Clan de
Siciliens, Ventura’s masculinity presents itself in a different way to Gabin’s. Whereas
Vittorio is constantly surrounded by his family and entourage, Le Goff tends to separate
himself off from his team of detectives. Similarly, whereas Gabin’s character displays
all the sartorial signs of a powerful gangster (dark, double-breasted pinstriped suits and
dark glasses), Ventura’s character is stripped of this accoutrement and is unfetishised.
Arguably, Ventura presents a ‘purer’ form of masculinity to Gabin’s, one which is
uncluttered. A reading of the closing shot of the film combined with the two stars
differing styles of masculinity would now lead us to conclude (implicitly) that as
Gabin’s role as the ultimate patriarch of French cinema is beginning to fade at the end
of the 1960s/ beginning of the 1970s, Ventura manages, to a certain extent, to take his
place.
In Adieu poulet, Ventura’s only film with Dewaere, he is once again positioned as a
patriarchal/ paternalistic figure. An imbalance of power underscores Dewaere and
Ventura’s onscreen relationship. The viewer is constantly reminded that Dewaere and
Ventura are separated in age and outlook. Ventura’s character, Vergeat infantalises
Lefèvre (Dewaere), repeatedly
highlighting his dysfunctionality
and lack of moral code. The
difference between the two actors
is visible in their costumes.
Ventura
FIG 7: Ventura and Dewaere in Adieu Poulet
(Granier-Deferre,1974).
follows
his
usual
sartorial motif and wears a light
coloured single breasted jacket
132
with thin black tie. Dewaere’s character, by way of contrast, often wears a chequered
jacket which underlines the unorthodoxy of his character. The fashionable cut of
Lefebvre’s jacket contrasts with Vergeat’s old-fashioned straight cut jacket, reminding
the spectator that he stands for earlier values. Lefèvre’s laid back and implicitly
unprincipled character is also signified by his open shirts. If he does wear a tie it is
loosely tied, once again contrasting with Ventura’s costume. As a result of Vergeat’s
restraint in terms of dress and Lefèvre’s flamboyance, in Adieu poulet, costume codes
Ventura as functional and Dewaere as excessive. This is consistent with the two actors’
performance styles. Whereas Ventura continues to embody control and restraint,
Dewaere’s excitable performance acts as a counterpoint. An example of this contrast
occurs when the two men sit in a traffic jam and are approached by a female political
canvasser. Lefèvre shouts violently at the woman, wildly gesticulating with his arms out
of the window, whilst Vergeat sits quietly beside him irritated by the young man’s
excess.
In characterisating Le Febvre as an excitable child, the film’s narrative
positions Vergeat as a father figure. During the course of the film, Vergeat becomes a
mentor figure to Le Febvre, despite the latter’s initial resistance to his superior’s
moralistic attitude to police work. However, ultimately, when Vergeat rejects the
corrupt town and leaves, Lefèvre decides to follow his ‘mentor’ – so all that moralistic
positioning has its effect.
This narrative, in which Vergeat the individual stands for the moral good against the
corrupt powers that be, is consistent with its generic context: the 1970s political thriller.
The political thriller refers to films made in the 1970s that reflected contemporaneous
realities such as corruption within political parties, governments and the police force
(Forbes 1992: 59-62). According to Forbes, central to the structure of the political
thriller was ‘the pitting of the individual against society, the desperation of the small
133
man in his inability to arrest the big machine, are all implicitly a critique of collective
solutions’ (Forbes 1992: 61). This narrative motif is key to Adieu poulet, in which
Ventura’s character Vergeat fights against corrupt politicians and senior policemen. In
this way Ventura simultaneously embodies the force of the police but with the will and
moral conviction of the individual.
Vergeat’s resistance to both organised politics and the police force in Adieu poulet
illustrates the wider dissent from collective ideologies witnessed during the Giscardian
presidency. In Adieu poulet, law and order is informed by the moral code of the
individual. It is noteworthy that we see a similar tendency towards individualism in
Alain Delon’s films during the 1970s. Critics have made reference to Delon’s
individualism and its exponential increase later in his career (Hayes 2004: 54; and
Vincendeau, 2000). Delon is frequently cast as an individual who fights against the
injustices of politicians and the police (see Mort d’un pourri, Lautner, 1977; and Trois
hommes à abattre, Deray, 1979). The difference between the two stars’ individualised
rebellions is that, in Ventura’s films, he still remains attached to a form of establishment
(either the police as in Adieu poulet and Cadaveri eccelenti or a lycée in La Gifle).
Delon, by way of contrast is frequently cast as a figure unattached to any organisation
who makes his way through life by unclear or implausible means (he is for example a
professional gambler in Trois hommes à abattre). Moreover, as is seen in Adieu poulet,
Ventura’s individualism is on the whole successfully paternalistic unlike Delon’s
(Austin 2003b: 55-59).
Ventura’s off-screen discourses mirror his on-screen characters, thus corroborating with
the authenticity of his moralistic star persona. Off-screen Ventura refused organised
politics, and yet was perceived as an upholder of old values (i.e work, fatherland/ nation
134
and family) (see Brincourt 1987: 60-85). In this way Ventura’s star persona seems to
epitomise the demise of working-class collectivised ideologies during the 1970s and the
rise of the individual. Yet there is something of a paradox in his positioning. For, in the
controlling figures as embodied by Ventura, we can see a reflection of the economic
policies of Giscard D’Estaing which encouraged individualism. Thus, Ventura’s roles
seem to mirror Giscard d’Estaing and his politics of the individual which allow for the
existence of an isolated figure of power. We recall that Giscard d’Estaing’s presidential
style has been seen by some as ‘monarchical’ (Larkin 336 and Frears 1981: 30, 37),
and, in some ways Ventura’s solid, individualistic, patriarchal positioning echoes this.
Ventura’s fatherland/ nation and
individualistic moral code is
reinforced by his association both
on
and
off-screen
with
the
institution of the family. This
dimension
of
Ventura’s
star
persona also serves to remind us
of
the
inconsistent
discourses
political
surrounding
the
French family during the 1970s.
The effects of feminism on the
liberalisation
concerning
of
legislation
divorce,
FIG 8: Ventura the Family Man
contraception and abortion were
such that during the 1970s the French family was in a state of major flux. Moreover, the
validity of the bedrock of traditional family life, the married couple, also underwent
135
change as a result of the increasing number of couples cohabiting and the advances of
the gay liberation movement. However, despite these advances, France under Giscard
D’Estaing remained reluctant to embrace radical change. We recall, for example, that
Giscard D’Estaing’s inherent conservatism, coupled with resistance within parliament,
led to an inconsistent approach to feminist issues (Frears 1981: 151).
Consequently, although there were emphatic movements away from the traditional
French family structure during the 1970s, Ventura’s star persona serves as a reminder of
the more conservative underbelly of Giscardian political culture that sought to retain
‘traditional’ family values, namely the renewal of the rightwing via Chirac’s RPR and
the rise of the Front National. Off-screen, in interviews and articles, frequent reference
is made to Ventura’s loyalty to his family and the actor’s belief in family values.
Ventura famously refused to perform on-screen kisses and was married to his wife
Odette for 45 years (Brincourt 1987: 60-85). Ventura was notoriously circumspect in
interviews, particularly in relation to his private life. The only occasion Ventura
voluntarily stepped into the limelight was in order to publicise his campaign to help
disabled children like his own daughter (Cinéma français 1980: 17). This sense of
family extended even to those he was not related to according to his co-star in La Gifle
Girardot. Girardot recalled that on the set of La Gifle Ventura would treat the film team
as his children, and suggests that Ventura’s epithet were the words ‘friendship’, ‘team’
and ‘family’ (Girardot 2003: 125).
The centrality of the family to Ventura’s off-screen image contrasts dramatically with
Dewaere’s star persona off-screen, which was coloured by his highprofile split with
Miou-Miou only a few years after their child was born. On-screen, Dewaere’s
characters are on the whole separate from the family structure. If Dewaere comes into
136
contact with the family he tends to act as destabilising force within it. This is clearly
seen in Les Valseuses (Blier, 1974) in which Dewaere’s character tyrannises several
bourgeois families and couples. Whereas Ventura’s star persona attempts to eliminate
the feminine or at least contain it within tightly controlled boundaries, Dewaere’s own
gendered identity troubles the boundaries of the gendered family. This facet of
Dewaere’s star persona is revealed in several of his films, and is particularly clear in Les
Valseuses in which the gendered roles of mother/father/daughter/son are blurred and an
alternative family unit is proposed. Within this alternative unit the roles of maternity,
paternity and infancy are constantly exchanged between the three central protagonists
(Miou-Miou, Dewaere and Depardieu), although, as I will argue in the sections on
Miou-Miou and Depardieu, the balance of this exchange is unequal and tends to leave
Dewaere in a more marginalised position. A further example of Dewaere’s destabilising
role in relation to the family is seen in Beau-père (Blier, 1981) in which he has a semiincestuous relationship with his stepdaughter (see the last chapter of this thesis).
Although the family is central to the construction of Ventura’s off-screen star persona,
there is an interesting anomaly to his interaction with the family on-screen. On the
whole the heterosocial family is absent in Ventura’s films (though there are exceptions,
to which I will refer shortly). What takes its place is what Vincendeau refers to as the
‘male family’. Vincendeau uses this term in relation to her discussion of Jean-Pierre
Melville’s films (Ventura starred in two Melville films: L’Armée des ombres and Le
Deuxième souffle) Vincendeau argues that in Melville’s films the threat of a feminine
presence is largely erased, and a male family takes its place (Vincendeau 2003: 198).
Vincendeau describes the male family’s formation as follows:
137
The male family […] defined by its habitat and marginalisation of women, is bound by looks and gestures
between the members. There are the discreet but constant ‘phatic’ contact of pats on the back and on the
arm (Vincendeau 2003: 113).
The contours of Melville’s solid male family are thus achieved, in part, through the
actors’ performance and costume. This structuring process can also be found in
Ventura’s films of the 1970s. As we have already mentioned Ventura is frequently
positioned at the centre of the frame, encircled by his admiring team of (male) police
officers or gangsters who perform the ‘phatic’ contact that Vincendeau describes.
Vincendeau’s explanation for the elimination of the feminine and the existence of this
‘male family’ in Melville’s films is in response to ‘increased female emancipation of the
1960s’ (Vincendeau 2003: 211). By the 1970s the women’s movement was more
advanced than it had been in the previous decade, resulting in an even greater presence
of public femininities and a series of challenges to the structure of gendered spaces. Set
against this context, Ventura’s films carry forward Melville’s male family, but in
Ventura’s films they are informed by the specificity of his individualism. Although the
male family is present (for example in the shape of Ventura’s characters’ investigative
team in Le Clan des siciliens or Adieu poulet), Ventura’s characters isolate themselves
within these families. In Le Clan des siciliens for example, Vergeat rarely converses
with his colleagues at length and sees the pursuit of the escaped Sartet (who was in
prison for killing a police officer) as a personal quest. Thus, when it is discovered that
Sartet has escaped, Le Goff leaves the investigation room and his officers without a
word or a gesture, leaving his colleagues unaware of what has happened.
Despite the presence of the male family, the female presence is not entirely eradicated
from Ventura’s films. And, when femininities do emerge, the boundaries of Ventura’s
stable masculinity are arguably challenged. Hayward (2004: 168-171) sets up the
138
possibility of Ventura’s gender trouble in her discussion of L’Armée des ombres in
relation to Simone Signoret. Hayward argues that though, through her assassination,
Signoret’s character Mathilde is ultimately contained by the narrative boundaries of
Melville’s text, prior to this moment Signoret raises interesting questions around the
stability of gender within the film, and thus of Ventura’s masculinity. Hayward notes
that Ventura’s character, although displaying some signifiers of virility, is ultimately
characterised by stasis – a non-masculine trait. She summarises the ‘gendering’ of roles
in L’Armée des ombres as follows:
Undeniably, Mathilde is controlled by the male discursivity of the text[…], but she is not reduced to
stereotype. […]Mathilde does not occupy a feminised position anymore than the two men necessarily
occupy a masculinised one (Hayward 2004: 170).
In her analysis, Hayward reveals that in L’Armée des ombres Ventura’s gender is not as
fixed as it is elsewhere. Hayward illustrates this argument by citing the frequent
occasions that Ventura’s character is imprisoned within the film, thus denying him the
traditionally masculine trait of mobility. Hayward argues that this stasis is perhaps
accentuated by the presence of Signoret’s ambiguously gendered body, and the various
disguises she adopts in the film allows her to move freely throughout occupied France.
Ventura’s vulnerability in the presence of unstable genders reoccurs in his 1974 film La
Gifle. By placing Ventura within a family setting, the film begins to question his
position as virile patriarch. In it he plays Jean, the father of Isabelle (Isabelle Adjani).
The father and daughter live together in Paris where Jean is a teacher in a lycée and
Isabelle studies medicine. Isabelle begins to strive for greater freedom and tensions
increase between the pair. Following a heated discussion regarding Isabelle’s education
which results in violence, Isabelle runs away to England to be with her estranged
139
mother Hélène (Annie Girardot). In the presence of his daughter, her boyfriend and his
students Ventura’s character is, on the whole, able to exert some authority and respect
(shown for example at the staff/student football match). In contrast, in the presence of
his ex-wife, Jean’s resistance to his daughter’s rebellion seems disproportionate and
even hysterical. Thus, when Jean arrives in England to take back Isabelle, his refusal to
accept her wishes contrasts with Hélène’s calm acceptance. In La Gifle, Girardot
appears to contrast in every way with Ventura, but the difference is particularly
apparent in their contrasting dress. Whereas Ventura still wears a single breasted, grey
jacket, Girardot’s clothes are modern, fashionable and colourful, reflective of her
modern outlook and mobility. Whilst Hélène lives and works in Australia and moves
freely between France and England, Jean is uncomfortable with the displacement and
appears to be stuck in the same patterns he adopted when they were together ten years
before. We can see how then, in La Gifle, when the protection of the male family is
removed and in the presence of an ambiguously gendered body, or again as in L’Armée
des ombres, un-masculine traits (e.g. stasis) emerge within Ventura’s star persona.
Through work, the family and fatherland/ nation, Lino Ventura embodies the
conservative impulses of an ostensibly liberalised Giscardian France. But the star can
also be associated with an earlier form of conservatism, that of Poujadism. Pierre
Poujade was a populist leader who, during the 1950s, gained popularity through his
defense of the economic rights of shopkeepers and his desire to reinstate past values in
order to solidify the nation. Poujade represented the rights of the little man in the face of
modernisation and change. The expression ‘poujadisme’ is still relevant today and
signifies a political ideology that expresses the concerns of those facing political and
social change (Economist 2003:78). It is for this reason that the term resonates with
Ventura’s star persona. Faced with the dramatic social and economic changes of the
140
1970s, his star persona stood in defiance against these changes through his
embodiement of past political and social values (e.g. the Pétainist triumvirate:
fatherland/ nation, work and family).
82
It is against this political backdrop that
Ventura’s apparently right-wing persona continued to resonate with French spectators
(of all differing political classes) during the 1970s and 1980s. Thus, in a poll in 1984
Ventura was found to be most popular with the male 18-25 age group (Dehée 2000: 21)
(the demographic group that experienced acutely the effects of unemployment at the
beginning of the 1980s). Ventura also embodied for other (older audiences) a nostalgic
desire on the part of the French for stability, a desire that was simultaneously reflected
in a small percentage of France’s electors who began to show increasing support for the
far right (14% for Le Pen’s National Front). Thus, Ventura’s iconicity as a worker-hero
emanates not from the Popular Front of the 1930s (as with Gabin, with whom we know
he has often been compared), but in fact from Pétain’s État Français of the 1940s into
certain right-wing discourses of the 1980s, which if not extreme right are centre right.
82
Ultimately, during the 1980s these values would be recuperated by Jean-Marie Le Pen and the National
Front, who took advantage of the population’s concern regarding issues such as unemployment – which
Le Pen blamed on France’s immigration classes (Mendras 1994: 75).
141
That is a partial reading that can be made. But let us not forget his appeal to the youth
audience. Arguably, the appeal of Ventura to young men was his solid masculinity.
Through his acting style, his speech and his costume Ventura displays a multitude of
signs of gender that are culturally coded as male. Crucially, the media perception and
representation of Ventura validates this masculinity as authentic. In 1980, Cinéma
français described him as ‘the symbol of
the virile actor’ (Cinéma français 1980:
14), and constant reference is made in
articles and interviews to his previous
career as a wrestler. When Ventura died,
Paris Match featured the actor on its front
cover with the title ‘mort d’un homme’
(death of a man) (6 November 1987). This
is consistent with earlier descriptions of
Ventura’s star persona. These extra-filmic
FIG 9: Lino Ventura ‘Mort d’un homme’
discourses reinforce and authenticate the
symmetry of Ventura’s on-screen and off-screen gendered identity, which was that of
virility and thus masculinity.
Returning to our own star persona, Dewaere, and by way of total contrast, critics often
highlight a juvenile dimension to his identity. Austin suggests that he was frequently
cast in little brother roles with Depardieu, and was portrayed by the press as a
vulnerable child (2003b: 86). And in contrast with Ventura, when Dewaere died,
journalists infantalised the actor (despite the fact the Dewaere was 35 when he died),
and one headline read ‘mort d’un enfant terrible’ (‘death of an enfant terrible’) (Journal
du nord 1982). We might conclude that, in the eyes of the public, Ventura’s masculinity
142
was (on the whole) stable and untroubled, whilst Dewaere’s was child-like and
undeveloped.
During a period when the boundaries of gender were constantly being subjected to
change and destabilisation as a result of legislative reform and socio-economic change,
Ventura offered a representation of masculinity that promised stability and continuity in
an uncertain world. Ventura’s continued popularity, despite his conservatism, during the
1970s and early 1980s underlines the fact that France’s liberalisation under Giscard
d’Estaing was not a straightforward process. In this way Ventura illustrates Richard
Dyer’s theory that stars function ‘in relation to contradictions within and between
ideologies, which they seek variously to ‘manage’ or resolve’ (Dyer 1998: 34).
Arguably, by acting as a ‘symbol of virility’ Ventura embodied at the time an attempt to
resolve some of the contradictions inherent to the configuration of masculinity in
Giscardian France – something which Dewaere’s body singularly failed to do (as the
following chapters, particularly those in Part Two of this thesis will make clear).
143
Gérard Depardieu
Gérard Depardieu is the only star discussed in this section who has, in terms of their
1970s work, received critical attention. Numerous biographies have been written on the
star’s life, in addition to Depardieu’s own autobiographical texts (1988 and 2004), and
critics such as Vincendeau (2000) and Austin (2003a and b) have more recently offered
analyses of his career. For this, reason, and for the purposes of this thesis, I shall
concentrate only on the way in which Depardieu’s star body interacts with Dewaere’s
during the period 1969-1982.
By the time Les Valseuses was released in 1974, Gérard Depardieu had already been
working as a film actor for nearly ten years and had featured in films with key 1970s
directors such as José Giovanni, René Allió and Marguerite Duras. The majority of
these roles were, however, minor. As with Dewaere and Miou-Miou, it was Les
Valseuses which truly launched Depardieu’s career. Les Valseuses positioned the three
actors as anti-stars who broke the mould that dictated how leading actors should look
and perform. Depardieu’s ‘massive, thick set body’, his ‘longish (sometimes greasy)
hair’ and his ‘belligerent jutting chin’ (Vincendeau 2000: 219) were all features which
contravened the codes and conventions of the handsome male star embodied at the time
by the likes of Delon.
144
In the eyes of French audiences, the film established an almost mythical partnership
between Dewaere and Depardieu. I use the word mythical since, given that the pair only
starred together in three films: Les Valseuses, Préparez vos mouchoirs (Blier, 1977) and
Le Grand embouteillage (Comencini, 1979)83, this relationship has been somewhat
exaggerated.
For example both Austin
(2003b: 78-90) and Jordan and Niogret
(1986: 45-6), discuss the two actors in the
same piece. Moreover, in a special edition of
Studio Magazine dedicated to Dewaere,
Marc Esposito’s article refers constantly to
Dewaere’s relationship with Depardieu. Here
we see that despite Esposito’s clear love of
Dewaere, he too corals the latter on the
FIG 10: Dewaere and Depardieu on the
set of Préparez vos mouchoirs (Blier,
1978)
periphery of Depardieu’s all-consuming star
body. Thus, even when the focus is allegedly
on Dewaere, Depardieu remains omnipresent. This section will try and unpick some of
the myths which surround this relationship.
As arguably the two most sought after actors of French cinema in the late 1970s early
1980s, Dewaere and Depardieu were constantly compared with one another (which
might explain why critics have continued to fixate on this partnership following
Dewaere’s death). Directors, producers, critics and Dewaere himself 84, made frequent
comparisons between the actors’ respective level of box office success, the number of
83
In Le Grand embouteillage they do not act in any scenes together.
See for example Blier: ‘from the start when they acted together, there was only one body. In losing
Patrick, we also lost the couple Depardieu-Dewaere. They definitely would have done more films
together’ (Esposito 1989: 64). See also Jordan and Niogret (1986: 45-6) and Penso (1981: 106) for
Dewaere’s own statements about the relationship.
84
145
films they starred in, the number of awards they were nominated for and the quality of
the reviews they received. This ‘competition’, as it transpired however, ultimately had
a debilitating effect on Dewaere (Esposito 1989: 61).
This section attempts to explain the effect of these comparisons on Dewaere’s star body,
particularly in relation to his gendered identity. I shall show here that Depardieu and
Dewaere differ in their respective representations of the so-called crisis in masculinity
that occurred during the 1970s. In order to do this, I will expand upon Austin’s
discussion of their careers (2003b) by offering more detailed analyses of their 1970s
films. The sub-title of Austin’s chapter on Dewaere and Depardieu, ‘Brothers and
equals’, is misleading (Austin, 2003b: 78). I will show that from the outset, both on an
off-screen, Depardieu adopted a role of a manipulative and dominant older brother to
Dewaere. In their two main films together, Les Valseuses and Préparez-vos mouchoirs,
Depardieu assumes the role of leader and often bully of Dewaere. I will argue that this
relationship with Depardieu infantilises and emasculates Dewaere, and had a
debilitating effect on the construction of the latter’s masculinity. I will show that,
although both actors, through their bodies and their performances, expressed troubled
masculinities, it was Dewaere’s body that suffered the most. I will explore this
argument across four film texts. Firstly, I shall consider Depardieu and Dewaere’s
respective representations of masculinity and delusional obsession in Série noire
(Corneau, 1979) and Dîtes-lui que je l’aime (Miller, 1977). Secondly, I shall build upon
my earlier discussion of Hôtel des Amériques to consider how in Le Dernier métro
(Truffaut, 1980) Depardieu, unlike Dewaere, is ultimately able to relate to Deneuve’s
alpha-femininity. Finally, I shall ask to what extent Depardieu engages with the
historical context of 1970s and early 1980s France.
146
In order to disentangle their emergence, I shall briefly compare their careers pre-Les
Valseuses. The careers of both actors were in part motivated by a desire to escape their
respective backgrounds. Although Dewaere had originally been forced to act by his
actress mother Mado Maurin, by the age of eighteen, Dewaere achieved relative
independence from his mother, and at twenty-one sought out new forms of acting at the
Café de la Gare. Depardieu, on the other hand, used acting as an escape from poverty
and violence (Chazal 1982: 9-11)85. Chazal and others have stated that Depardieu’s life
pre-acting in many ways resembled the role he would eventually play in Les Valseuses
(Chazal 1982: 11-13). Accounts of Depardieu’s beginnings in acting are contradictory.
One report suggests that Michel Pilorgé, who he had met by chance at a train station,
encouraged him to go to Paris to take acting classes (Chazal 1982: 12). In another
interview Depardieu suggested that a child psychologist had advised him to take up
acting (Fontana, 2005). What is clear is that at 15 he moved to Paris to study theatre at
the Theatre National Populaire (TNP), and then followed classes with Jean-Laurent
Cochet (Chazal 1982: 12). In some respects he therefore received more official training
than Dewaere who as a child learned acting on the job in theatres, television studios and
later at the Café de la Gare86.
This uncovers one key factor in the mythologisation of the Depardieu/Dewaere
partnership: the notion that they both emerged from the Café de la Gare, and therefore
an alternative school of acting. This, as with other aspects of their relationship, has been
somewhat exaggerated. Although Depardieu’s acting style has frequently been
associated with the Café de la Gare87, his actual participation with the alternative
theatre group was minimal. Depardieu spent six months with the group in 1969 (Chazal
85
Before he actually became an actor he would actually pretend to be an one in order to impress people
(Chazal 1982: 11).
86
Dewaere did follow some theatre classes with Raymond Girard whilst preparing for his attempt to enter
the Conservatoire (Loubier 2002: 76).
87
See (Vincendeau 2000: 220) and (Austin 2003: 79).
147
1982: 160). In contrast Dewaere was intimately involved with the Café de la Gare from
1968 until 1973. Throughout the 1970s the members of the Café de la Gare remained
central to Dewaere’s social life and he even rejoined the original team in 1977 for a tour
of Belgium.88
The two actors’ pasts continued to play an active part in the construction of their
identities throughout their careers, albeit in different ways. Notably, when Dewaere
made reference to his experiences as a part of the ‘Tribu Maurin’ (Maurin tribe), he
focused on the tensions and trauma of this period. In fact, he frequently attempted to
distance himself from his family.89 In contrast, although Depardieu had originally fled
from his poverty-stricken background, this did not stop him from frequently referring to
his rather shady past and using it to authenticate his rough and brutish image (Stein
1978: 21). We saw in Chapter Three that, in contrast with Depardieu’s burly selfassurance, Dewaere’s troubled relationship with his past is reflected on and off-screen
in his unhinged star-persona.
Although the two actors were unquestionably close on the set of Les Valseuses and
displayed a sense of allegiance to one another, in the years that followed (according to
Blier) Dewaere was always dominated by Depardieu, the ringleader (Esposito 1989:
59). As a result perhaps, Dewaere apparently felt threatened by Depardieu. According to
Depardieu, during the filming of Les Valseuses, Dewaere became fearful that his co-star
would encroach upon his burgeoning relationship with Miou-Miou. In Depardieu’s
autobiographical book Lettres volées (1988) which is constructed as a series of letters,
including one addressed to Dewaere, Depardieu recounts the following anecdote:
Dewaere’s involvement in the Café de la gare shall be discussed in more detail in the following
chapter.
89
See for example the following interviews: Michèle Dokan, ‘Dewaere préfère la musique au cinéma’,
France-Soir, 9 May 1978, p.21, Gilles Durieux, Unifrance Dossiers Entretien (486) June 1974, and
Christine Gauthey, ‘Enfin, je suis vilain’, Journal du dimanche, 7 December 1975, p.11.
88
148
During the shoot in Provence of Les Valseuses we slept in the same hotel. One night […] I suddenly
heard groans and moans. I couldn’t work out where it was coming from. It wouldn’t stop […] Then, all of
a sudden, the door to my bedroom literally exploded. I saw you [Dewaere] in front of me, totally lit up,
excited with wide eyes. Then, you stammered a lame excuse:
-
I thought she was with you.
-
But who?
-
Miou… Miou-Miou. I thought you were making love to each other.
Moans and groans, that was you. You cried, you did your self harm. (Depardieu 1988: 54)
Regardless of whether this incident really occurred or not, Depardieu’s recollection of
events reveals the power imbalance within his relationship with Dewaere. Depardieu’s
description suggests Dewaere could not control his feelings and that he felt insecure
about women next to Depardieu. Depardieu’s language (groans, moans and crying) also
implies that Dewaere was immature and childlike in his self-expression. Thus, through
this recollection, Depardieu perpetuates the emasculation of Dewaere’s star image,
which as we shall see began onscreen with Les Valseuses.
For Les Valseuses, Blier began by
casting
Miou-Miou
and
Depardieu. Initially Blier felt that
FIG 11: Depardieu, Miou-Miou and Dewaere in Les
Valseuses (Blier, 1974)
Dewaere was unsuitable for the
more infantilised role of Pierrot
since his physique was bigger and arguably therefore more masculine than Depardieu’s.
In the end, Blier concluded that the partnership would work since Depardieu possessed
more hargne (spite) than Dewaere (Esposito 1989: 59). Arguably, in Depardieu, this
149
hargne becomes physically threatening and thus in the eyes of the spectator augments
the actor’s size, strength and weight.
Two further factors contribute to the illusion of Depardieu’s size next to Dewaere.
Firstly, his style of acting originates from his theatre training. Having watched
Depardieu in a stage play in 1980, Benhamou argues that:
Depardieu seemed at ease in the slow pace, the exaggeration, and the exteriorisation, which distinguishes
theatre and cinema acting […] we rediscover in the films made by Depardieu aspects of this theatricality.
(Benhamou 1980: 20)
As Benhamou suggests, the amplification, exteriorization and slow pace of Depardieu’s
theatre acting are all communicated on-screen. 90We can deduce that these factors
augment the impression Depardieu’s actual size.91 The second factor which arguably
increases Depardieu’s physical impact next to Dewaere is the violence that critics have
claimed emanates from his body. This originates in part from his rough features, which
imply violence. It is also generated by the discourses of violence that circulate him offscreen, which serve to create a threatening or animalistic star persona. In interviews he
frequently makes reference to the violent experiences of his past, and on occasion links
these experiences to the physicality of his contemporary body:
‘Even at ten years. I am big and strong, almost like now […] School was rough. When I went there I was
in a gang, so I’d carry a gun with me. A. 635. We all carried guns. There was a lot of violence’. He
90
Prior to making Le Dernier metro, Truffaut actually expressed his initial reluctance to work with
Depardieu because of his sheer size. ‘at first he wasn’t the right actor for me; he is too physically
imposing, and I find it difficult to direct actors who have a large frame’ (Truffaut quoted in Chazal 1982,
106).
91
The qualities of Depardieu’s acting style are different to those of Miou-Miou’s which are informed
instead by the intimacy and informality of her performances at the Café de la Gare. We recall that
Depardieu had largely been involved in more mainstream theatre.
150
smiles. ‘We got a lot of our ides in those days from westerns. But I knew how to take care of myself’.
(Depardieu quoted in Stein, 1978: 21)
Here Depardieu makes clear links between his current star persona and his violent past.
Thus, even in his position of affluence in 1978 his star-persona is imbued with danger
and physical force. The language used by critics to describe Depardieu corroborates
Depardieu’s description of himself and therefore validates the myth of the ‘animalistic’
star. Stein refers to Depardieu as ‘thick’, ‘powerful’ and a ‘primal force’ with ‘raw
power’ (Stein, 1978: 20-1). Stein’s article is accompanied by a piece by Molly Haskell
entitled ‘You Gérard, me Jane’ (Haskell 1978: 23), and the feature itself is entitled:
‘Gérard Depardieu: French Primitive’. During the 1970s the size and weight of
Depardieu’s body would constantly be drawn upon by directors, and is clearly seen in
Dîtes lui que je l’aime, which will be discussed later in this section.92
Contrary to the size and mass of Depardieu’s physical and projected presence, several
critics have focused on the feminine qualities inherent to his star persona, to the point
that, according to Vincendeau, this side to his star persona has become clichéd (2000:
228). Forbes, for example, claims that Blier saw in Depardieu ‘a febrility, a sensuality
and a vulnerability’ (Forbes 1992:177-8)93 which he exploited on-screen. However,
Vincendeau has suggested that Depardieu’s embodiment of both masculine and
feminine qualities does not undermine the construction of his masculinity. She explains
that:
92
For La Dernière femme (Ferreri, 1976) Depardieu would actually build upon this weight (by eating
excessively) in order to accentuate the descent of this man stripped of his virility by a woman who has
left him (Chazal 1982: 59).
93
See also Harris (2001: 52). Depardieu himself commented that these qualities were often found in his
performances in Marguerite Duras’ films. He stated that he always the same sorts of characters in her
films: ‘a fragile man, a little bit frail, a very feminine character in fact’ (Chazal 1982: 70).
151
Ultimately though, this gender displacement does not entail changes in either casting patterns or the
values associated with femininity and masculinity, which are left at their most traditional (male = active,
female = passive). The occupying of feminine – identified spaces not only leads to the narrative
marginalisation of women but also to a widening of the psychological base of Depardieu’s characters,
and, not negligibly, the number and importance of the parts he can play. (Vincendeau 2000: 229)
Consequently, rather than weakening his masculinity or complicating his star persona,
Depardieu’s embodiment of different positions of gender further enlarges the mass of
his star-body and his controlling masculinity. Thus, whilst in films such as Les
Valseuses and Hôtel des Amériques Dewaere’s gendered body is placed in an
unresolved position of febrility, inarticulation and impotence (all signs which contradict
virile masculinity), Depardieu’s display of feminine signifiers in his films allows him,
and his characters, to perpetuate his control and dominance. The development of
Depardieu’s masculinity as one which allows the comfortable co-existence of feminine
and masculine signifiers can be contextualised within Rosalind Chapman’s analysis of
the contemporaneous 1980s New Man and his various incarnations (1996). Chapman’s
argument is summarised here by Phil Powrie:
[t]hese varieties of masculinity, though separate social types, had one thing in common: the revolt against
the 1950s ‘breadwinner ethic’ and the ‘hardline masculinity’ which accompanied it […], and thus might
be seen to represent a new ‘feminised’ man. However, it is equally possible to argue […] that this merely
represents a repositioning or realignment within patriarchal power structures, ‘producing a hybrid
masculinity which is better able and more suited to retain control. (Powrie et al 2004: 13)
Arguably, Depardieu successfully produces this hybrid masculinity, and thus, as
Chapman states, is able to ‘retain control’.
152
Returning now to the interaction of Dewaere and Depardieu in the 1970s and the
specific case of Les Valseuses. Harris argues that as the film progresses Jean-Claude
and Pierrot (Dewaere) become so similar, in their image and performance, that the two
characters become indistinguishable. Contrary to this argument, I would suggest that a
clear imbalance exists between the characters.94 When Depardieu and Dewaere are
juxtaposed in Les Valseuses, Dewaere is forced into the status of a child and deprived of
his virility. In Les Valseuses Depardieu’s character Jean-Claude is always the initiator
of their crimes, and thus the leader. With respect to Jean-Claude and Pierrot’s
relationship Austin outlines that:
Not only is he [Pierrot] younger, more passive and less physically intimidating, he is emasculated
temporarily (by being shot in the testicles) and is repeatedly infantilised (as when Jean-Claude bathes him
and washes his hair, and again when he sucks the breasts of the nursing mother) (Austin 2003b: 81).
It is worth noting that when Pierrot sucks the breasts of the nursing mother that it is
Jean-Claude who sets up the encounter and encourages him to proceed. Pierrot’s
infantilisation in this scene is compounded by his inability to get an erection, once again
signalling his lack of development and virility. Throughout the film Jean-Claude
remains consistently dominant when the pair interacts with women. Thus, when they
meet Jeanne Moreau’s character it is Jean-Claude who initiates the interaction and
speaks on Pierrot’s behalf. Pierrot’s inability to communicate signals his immaturity and
his inability to assert his identity – this will be a frequent trope of Dewaere’s later roles
(see Chapters Seven, Eight and Nine).
The most extreme moment of Pierrot’s emasculation occurs when Jean-Claude rapes
him off-camera. This incident serves as a brutal reminder of the dominance of Jean‘In Les Valseuses, the two male characters are gradually perceived to grow closer until they seem to be
more two parts of the same whole, indissociable, than two individual beings’ (Harris 2001: 70).
94
153
Claude’s character. It is also indicative of the powerful violence inherent to Depardieu’s
star persona, particularly in relation to Dewaere. Vincendeau reminds us that this type
of incident occurs twice in Depardieu’s filmography. In Tenue de soirée (Blier, 1986),
Depardieu’s character again rapes a man. Interestingly, it has been widely
acknowledged that Dewaere would have played this character had he still been alive
(Depardieu 1988: 59). Had he lived to make the film, Dewaere would therefore have
once again been emasculated by Depardieu’s star persona.
The relationship Depardieu forms with Dewaere on-screen is consistent with his other
comic roles in which he is frequently positioned as the dominant figure within a
partnership. Vincendeau suggests that these relationships guarantee Depardieu’s
masculinity:
Depardieu’s representation of heterosexual masculinity is shored up in these comedies by his consistent
teaming with a man who is coded as less socially skilled, less physically competent and less attractive to
women. (Vincendeau 2000: 222)
Following the release of Les Valseuses, Depardieu’s dominance over Dewaere
continued off-screen, in a way which arguably continued to guarantee Depardieu’s
masculinity in the manner that Vincendeau describes. In the aftermath of Les Valseuses
Depardieu’s career was the first to take off. In 1975 Depardieu starred in five films with
directors such as Schroeder, Bertolucci, Ferreri and Rouffio. With the latter director
Depardieu achieved critical success when he was nominated for a César in Sept morts
sur l’ordonnance (Rouffio, 1975). Dewaere’s pathway to success was slower (Esposito
1989: 61). There are several possible reasons for this. Firstly, Dewaere argued that he
would sometimes go for relatively long periods without working if there were no
suitable films on offer (Penso 1981: 53). In contrast with Dewaere, Depardieu operated
154
a more aggressive approach to both self-promotion and to the acquisition of roles.95
Another reason for Dewaere’s comparatively small film output was that on two separate
occasions Dewaere pusued other creative interests beyond the cinema, including his
continued interest in the Café de la Gare and his unsuccessful pursuit of a musical
career (Penso 1981:79-82). Finally, it is of course possible that at this point in the mid1970s Depardieu was simply more popular than Dewaere with auteur directors.96
After this slow ascension Esposito notes that, towards the end of 1975, Dewaere began
to garner the respect of critics, producers and audiences alike. And, between the
successes of Adieu poulet (for which Dewaere earned a nomination for best-supporting
actor at the Césars), and Le Juge fayard dit le Shériff Dewaere made four acclaimed
films (Esposito 1989: 62). In fact, according to Toscan du Plantier, although Depardieu
remained popular among directors, Dewaere became the preferred actor of producers
(Austin 2003b: 78). Although it is important to note that Dewaere claimed that critics
largely imagined the sense of competition between himself and Depardieu (Penso 1981:
106), it cannot be denied that Dewaere himself contributed to the perpetuation of this
myth. Unlike Depardieu, Dewaere frequently makes reference to Depardieu in
interview. This contrasts with Depardieu who rarely discussed Dewaere. Another
example of how this imbalance is played out in off-screen discourses is seen in an
interview given by Depardieu during the shooting of Préparez vos mouchoirs. In this
interview with an American reporter, Dewaere is actively occluded by Depardieu’s
presence. Stein describes what happened when Dewaere and co-star Carol Laure
decided to gate-crash the interview:
95
See Austin (2003: 84) and Esposito (1989: 66). Refer also to comments made by the French press in
relation to Depardieu’s voracious consumption of roles: ‘All those parts he played, others did not get
them. He gobbled everything up’ (Première quoted in Vincendeau (2000: 234).
96
See Vincendeau’s discussion of Depardieu’s work with 1970s auteur filmmakers (2000: 223-230).
155
‘Aha’, says Dewaere, smiling, ‘here they are, the Depardieu family. Deluxe service as usual.’ Laure’s
(Caroline) head appears below his, shaking sorrowfully. ‘Look at this. Its disgusting’. Depardieu looks at
them and grins, but there is no joy in it. Abruptly, imperceptibly, his mood has changed. His friends seem
to realise it and close the door. (Stein 1978: 22)
Although Dewaere’s comments are to a degree made at Depardieu’s expense,
Depardieu appears to control their interaction. It is also clear that Depardieu was a
dominant force on the set of Préparez-vos mouchoirs and the centre of the press’s
attention.
The unbalanced dynamic of Dewaere and Depardieu’s relationship revealed in this
interview extends onscreen to Préparez-vos mouchoirs. Once again Dewaere becomes
the subservient follower of Depardieu’s demands. In the opening sequence of the film
Raoul (Depardieu) and Solange (Laure) sit together in a restaurant. Frustrated by
Solange’s passivity and lack of enthusiasm for life, Raoul approaches a stranger,
Stéphane (Dewaere), and pleads with him to have an affair with his wife. Although at
first reluctant Stéphane is quickly bullied into following Raoul’s demands. Latterly,
Stéphane recalls that before Raoul approached him, he had spotted Solange in the
restaurant and felt dejected that once again an attractive woman was already involved
with another man. This statement suggests that without Raoul’s intervention, Stéphane
would remain alone. Other factors contribute to Stéphane’s emasculation. Whilst Raoul
occupies himself with the reconstruction/demolition of his home (a ‘manly’ activity),
Stéphane is an obsessive collector of Mozart and Livres de poche (similar to the
Penguin series). The portrayal of Laure’s character Solange also challenges Stéphane’s
masculinity. Harris explains the following:
156
[I]n the implied aftermath of love-making with Stéphane, as he waxes lyrical about fate, destiny and love
to a background soundtrack of Mozart, Solange sits naked knitting. She is indifferent to the intense
emotion that Stéphane expresses, an emotion and depth of feeling normally associated with the female
than the male in romantic conventions […] There is an undisguised transference of cinematised female
traits (sentimentality, tenderness, excessive emotion) to the male protagonist. (Harris 2001: 120)
Although both actors are emasculated in Préparez-vos mouchoirs as a result of
Solange’s love for the teenager Christian, the impact of this process on their respective
masculinities is different. Just as Pierrot is emasculated by his injury in Les Valseuses,
so too is Stéphane when he breaks his leg chasing Christian in Préparez vos
mouchoirs97. Interestingly, although Vincendeau (2000: 222) has noted that ‘many
Depardieu comedies hinge on his physical maiming and/or symbolic emasculation’, it is
worth noting that in the presence of Dewaere, Depardieu escapes this fate. Thus, as with
Les Valseuses, whilst Dewaere is injured, Depardieu remains intact and therefore virile.
Released in the same year as Préparez vos mouchoirs, Dîtes-lui que je l’aime (Miller,
1977) also plays out the imbalance of Dewaere and Depardieu’s relationship. Dewaere
had been instrumental in the production of Miller’s first film La Meilleure façon de
marcher. Despite this, Miller chose Depardieu to play the role of David Martinaud, a
delusional and violent man obsessed with a former girlfriend. Miou-Miou also stars in
the film as David’s neighbour. Dewaere was offered the role of David’s friend (a
relatively minor role). According to Esposito, Dewaere was hurt by Miller’s casting
choices, since they perhaps reaffirmed Depardieu’s success at Dewaere’s expense
(1989: 62).98
97
98
Stéphane then wears a plastercast and uses crutches in the following scene.
This is confirmed in Miller’s recollection of his relationship with Dewaere (Maurin 1993: 142).
157
Dîtes-lui que je l’aime has certain similarities with Dewaere’s later film Série noire
(Corneau, 1979). Both tell the stories of men who fantasise about an existence that is
not their own, and both suggest that the women in their lives are the catalysts for their
delusions. However, in their representation of these delusional characters, Depardieu
and Dewaere differ in ways which underline differences in their gendered bodies. Dîteslui que je l’aime draws upon the physical strength and hargne of Depardieu’s star body
already seen in Les Valseuses, but on this occasion uses it to more sinister effect
(Austin, 2003b: 84). Making use of these characteristics, Miller had wanted to ‘make a
sort of King-Kong’ out of Depardieu (Chazal 1982: 81). In contrast, in Série noire
Dewaere’s body is a site of deterioration rather than strength. Washed out by his
character’s grey suits and the desolate landscape of the banlieue (urban periphery),
Dewaere’s body appears a shadow of its former self.99
In Dîtes-lui que je l’aime David (Depardieu) is obsessed with Lise, a childhood friend
who is now married. Despite Lise’s marriage David continues to pursue her and even
creates a home for them both in the mountains where he hopes she will soon join him.
Although David is clearly delusional in his belief that Lise will one day submit, his
approach to convincing her is systematic and on the whole controlled. David’s control is
revealed in his costume. For the majority of the film he wears a suit (which accentuates
the bulk of his frame), and neat jumpers.
Although David’s obsession quickly deteriorates into violence, this violence is
controlled and exacting, and is often expressed in minute movements. This is clearly
illustrated when Lise’s husband comes to David’s house in order to confront him. As
Lise’s husband pulls up outside the house the camera cuts to David walking down the
99
For the role Dewaere lost 10 kilos (Esposito 1989: 64)
158
stairs inside the house. As David hears the car, the camera focuses close up on his hand
as he makes a small gesture with his finger, signifying his barely perceptible anger,
which will soon be violently unleashed. During their altercation David’s voice and
movements remain calm and precise. In contrast, Lise’s husband quickly becomes
panicked and ineffectual in his physical threats to David.
On the one hand, the film shows David as obsessive and delusional – weakened by his
desire for Lise. On the other hand however, David emerges as a physically dominant
figure who has (despite his weaknesses) managed to control those around him and force
them to submit to his wishes. In this way, the leader and bully element of Depardieu’s
persona remains intact even when seemingly under threat. This image is corroborated
by contemporaneous reviews of the film which tend to highlight Depardieu’s physical
strength or the power of his performance:
Depardieu looms with an unbelievable strength. It has been, without doubt, several years since we have
seen, in French cinema, a creation as strong as this. (Riou quoted by Chazal 1982: 80)
Depardieu’s portrayal of obsessive and delusional love differs starkly with Dewaere’s
performance in Série noire. The film will be discussed in more detail in Chapter Eight,
but it is worth briefly outlining here how Série noire relates to Depardieu’s performance
in Dîtes-lui que je l’aime. In Série noire Dewaere plays Frank Poupart an unsuccessful
door-to-door salesman who dreams of another existence beyond the impoverished urban
periphery of Paris. Like David, Frank is driven to murder in a desperate attempt to fufill
these dreams. Unlike Depardieu’s David, Dewaere’s portrayal of Frank is characterised
by uncontrolled violence, movement and language. Frank’s use of language is disorderd
and unrestrained. He constantly shifts between different registers and dialects, and
frequently speaks outloud even when he is on his own. Just as his use of language is
159
extreme, so too are his physical movements. Frank’s body is in constant movement. He
smokes voraciously, gesticulates wildly and repeatedly runs his fingers through his hair.
As we shall see in Chapter Nine, Frank’s hysterical language and movement is
indicative of his troubled gendered identity. This clearly contrasts with the assurance of
David. The two characters’ use of violence also differs. Whereas David’s acts of
violence are solid and controlled, Frank’s murders are uncontrolled and unsystematic.
When he kills Mona’s aunt the attack is, despite his protestations, haphazard.
Furthermore, unlike David, Frank also violently abuses himself. So for example, out of
desperate frustration, we see Frank in one scene hurling his head, hands in pockets,
against the side of his car.
As many critics have noted, Série noire marked a watershed in Dewaere’s career. In
1979 Dewaere and Depardieu were two of the most highly paid actors in France
(Austin, 2003b: 85). However, though it was the zenith of Dewaere’s talent, it was also
the beginning of the problems that would beset the remainder of his career and life. In
contrast in the late 1970s and early 1980s, Depardieu received greater acclaim and
acceptance both at home and abroad.
Although, Austin argues that Dewaere had
originally been the more reassuring of the two actors for French audiences (a claim that
I argued against in Chapter Three), by this point he was no longer perceived in this light
(Austin, 2003: 79). Thus, Austin notes
The result [of Série noire], although hailed as Dewaere’s greatest performance, also irredeemably
darkened his star image. After Série noire a genuinely flawed Dewaere rather than a more resilient
Depardieu became synonymous with the alienated modern male. (Austin 2003b: 86)
160
Following Série noire, Dewaere’s roles in films such as Un Mauvais fils (Sautet, 1980)
and Beau père (Blier, 1981) continued (to varying degrees) to encapsulate this
pessimistic image of the alienated modern male.100
In 1980, Dewaere experienced this alienation off-screen as a result of his difficult
relationship with both the public and the press. Tensions began when, Dewaere and a
group of friends attacked a journalist who had disclosed information about his marriage
with Elsa Dewaere (Loubier 2003: 286). In response, journalists boycotted Dewaere, an
action which resulted in the poor box-office success of Un Mauvais fils (Esposito 1989:
67-68).
1980 would prove an entirely different year for Depardieu. During this time Depardieu
made six films across a wide range of styles and genres. According to Chazal it was
these six films that truly established Depardieu as a star of French cinema (1982: 109).
The role that encapsulates this success, and which is the most relevant in terms of his
relationship with Dewaere, is Le Dernier metro. The film marked the beginning of
Depardieu’s
leap
into
major
stardom
nationally
and
increased
his
fame
internationally.101 Le Dernier métro was both a critical and commercial success. It was a
huge box-office success and won numerous awards at the Césars, including a best actor
award for Depardieu. Significantly, this was the fifth ceremony at which Dewaere was
denied a César (this time he had been nominated for best actor for his role in Un
Mauvais fils). Dewaere was, according to Jean-Jacques Annaud (the director of Coup
100
Sautet had originally thought of Depardieu for this role but, eventually decided on Dewaere (Esposito
1989: 66).
101
A key example of this leap is seen on the front page of Cinématographe in October 1980. Featuring a
still of Depardieu from Le Dernier métro the tag-line reads ‘L’Acteur d’aujourd’hui’. Although this title
refers to the subject of that issue, ‘contemporary acting’, the magazine clearly sees Depardieu as a figure
head of his generation of actors. The issue contains an article on Le Dernier métro and a further article
entitled ‘Deux monstres naissants’ which discusses the burgeoning careers of two young actors:
Depardieu and Huppert.
161
de tête, 1979), devastated by this final denial. Annaud describes Dewaere’s reaction at
the after-show party as follows:
He (Dewaere), so robust, so heavy, because he was stocky with that muscular frame that he had,
collapsed. He sobbed into my neck. (Annaud quoted in Maurin 1993: 184)
Le Dernier métro was the first of several films that Depardieu would make with
Deneuve. Between 1980 and 1981 alone they starred in three films together: Le Dernier
métro, Je vous aime (Berri, 1980) and Le Choix des armes. In each of these films their
characters are, to a greater or lesser extent, romantically involved with one another.102
Depardieu’s coupling with Deneuve as a plausible romantic lead arguably increases the
value of his stardom and his masculinity. Moreover, despite the fact that in Le Dernier
métro Depardieu plays a smaller role to Deneuve, his image is given equal standing to
her’s in the film’s publicity materials (See Appendix 1). We recall that previously
Depardieu and Dewaere had been seen to break the codes and conventions of the
romantic lead. However, in Le Dernier métro Depardieu appears to adhere to these
conventions more readily. Unlike Depardieu’s earlier roles in Loulou, Dîtes-lui que je
l’aime and La Dernière femme, in Le Dernier métro Depardieu is successful in his
attempts to form a heterosexual partnership. Depardieu’s alignment with the alphafemininity of Deneuve smooths out anxieties surrounding Depardieu’s sexualised body
that emerged in the films such as Les Valseuses and Préparez vos mouchoirs.
Consequently, in the presence of Deneueve, we might argue that Depardieu’s
heterosexuality and masculinity are reasserted. This of course contrasts with Hôtel des
Amériques in which, when positioned next to Dewaere, the signs of Deneuve’s
femininity are disturbed. In the presence of Depardieu, Deneuve’s star identity and
102
In Le Choix des armes this involvement is limited to obvious sexual tension between the two socially
distinct characters.
162
hyper-femininity remain intact. As for Dewaere, when he acts alongside Deneuve his
gendered identity is destabilised. As we shall see in the next chapter, Dewaere is
weakened and enfantilised in Hôtel des Amériques.
It is important to add, that Deneuve’s star persona is not the sole factor in this
heterosexualisation of Depardieu’s star persona in Le Dernier métro, nor is Deneuve’s
star persona stabilised soley as a result of her interaction with Depardieu. Truffaut’s
commitment to both the formation of the heterosexual couple and to the sophistication
and femininity of Deneuve’s star identity also contribute to this process (Fieschi 1980:
52 and Truffaut 1983: 8). Truffaut’s film treatment of sexuality contrasts entirely with
contemporaneous films such as Hôtel des Amériques, which were preoccupied with
explorations of marginality.
Le Dernier métro is a reminder of Depardieu’s increasing ability to circulate, as Chazal
puts it, between ‘the jobs and all the classes of society’ (Chazal 1982: 106). In fact, the
difference in the classed bodies of Deneuve and Depardieu has been highlighted as the
appeal of their partnership (Vincendeau 2000: 225). In several of Depardieu’s films this
theme of class interaction is retraced. Depardieu’s ability to interact with class bodies
that differ from his own working-class body is consistent with the way in which his star
body easily moves between other boundaries, such as genre. This view is corroborated
by Austin who explains the development of Depardieu’s star persona after Dewaere
death:
The gradual softening of his image during the eighties and nineties was to be accompanied by a shift
away from the (often negatively portrayed) values of the working-class and towards roles where he
incarnates either middle-class or, more often, historical and mythical values. (Austin 2003b: 85)
163
This ability to move between different styles, genres and classes has formed the bedrock
of his career. Vincendeau argues that his crossover between auteur cinema and popular
comedy is fundamental to the success and sustainability of his star persona (Vincendeau
2000: 224). Moreover, this ability, Austin argues, increased following Dewaere’s death
(Austin 2003b: 88):
Dewaere’s death left ‘a huge gap which Gérard Depardieu was able to fill with his genius. (Toscan du
Plantier quoted in Austin 2003b: 88)
We see therefore that in his movement between and occupation of differing classes,
genres and, we recall, genders, Depardieu star persona (like his physical presence)
leaves no gaps. Whereas, as we saw in the Chapter One and Three, Dewaere is firmly
located within his actual historical moment (Giscardian France)103, Depardieu grows
bigger than this moment to occupy multiple historical moments through his roles in
films such as 1900 (Bertolucci, 1976), Danton (Wajda, 1982), Le Dernier métro and
later in films such as Fort Saganne (Corneau, 1984) and Jean de Florette (Berri, 1986).
Although there are some factors which link Depardieu to the moment of 1970s France,
his resistant and resilient masculinity combined with his star body allows him to avoid
association with one sole historical period period. Vincendeau explains how
Depardieu’s ‘suffering macho’ speaks to a variety of historical periods:
Depardieu merged these diverse histories while providing the added value of class authenticity necessary
to the naturalistic 1970s. (Vincendeau 2000: 225)
In his ability to transgress generic boundaries, to aggrandize his past, and to move
between class boundaries, Depardieu remains outside of temporal deifinitions and
As an adult Dewaere featured in only one period film: Paco l’infaillible (Haudepin, 1982) which was
set in the 1920s.
103
164
boundaries. In some ways he thus creates an ahistorical star body. And, by avoiding the
historical specificity of Giscardian France, Depardieu avoids the crisis which Dewaere
evokes through his body.
It becomes clear, then, that despite the way in which Depardieu and Dewaere have been
seen as two sides of the same coin, they in fact differ in several ways. Their origins in
acting are not as similar as has been implied, and the number of their collaborations has
been exaggerated. Where they do star together the construction of the relationship is
based on an imbalance of power between them. Off-screen, by aligning the two actors
side by side critics fail to recognise the individuality both of Dewaere’s films and of his
masculinity. In this way they collude in the marginalisation of Dewaere within film
history and thus participate in the process of emasculation that Depardieu’s star persona
catalyses.
165
Chapter Five
1970s Star Bodies:
Catherine Deneuve, Annie Girardot
and Miou-Miou
166
Chapter Five
Dewaere in Context: 1970s Star Bodies
Catherine Deneuve, Annie Girardot and Miou-Miou
Catherine Deneuve
As with Ventura, Dewaere only starred with Deneuve in one film: Hôtel des Amériques
(Téchiné, 1981). Whereas in his film with Ventura, it was his less than stable
masculinity that is exposed, here in Téchiné’s film it is his very sexuality that comes
under scrutiny. If this film serves to explore Dewaere’s dysfunctionality within the
heteronormative couple, it also serves to reveals Deneuve as a persona of paradox. For
in this film, Deneuve’s star persona – in its very conflictual construction - provides a
counterpoint to her other films made during the Giscardian presidency.
Gwenaëlle Le Gras (2005) has stated that Deneuve’s star body negotiates political
developments post May ’68, particularly in relation to gender and sexuality (these
included both the rise of the feminist movement and emergence of the Gay liberation
movement)104. However, as we shall see, Deneuve’s star body, like Ventura’s, reveals
another side to this political culture – that of the constant conflict that existed between
liberalism and conservatism in Giscardian France – suggesting that she is less stable
than Le Gras would have us believe.
As we shall see, Deneuve’s many contradictions allow us to understand some of the
complex inconsistencies of 1970s France. We recall from Chapter Two that Dyer argues
stars can be read as polysemous texts (1998: 63). Polysemous refers to the way in which
the star’s image is composed of many complex, and potentially contradictory, layers.
In 1971 the FHAR was launched. This organisation sought to ‘struggle against patriarchy and
bourgeois family morality’ and modelled itself on the American Gay Liberation Front (Copley 1989:
225).
104
167
This characteristic of contradictions is particularly relevant to Deneuve in the 1970s.
Her star persona constantly shifts between the feminine, exploited as object, and the
feminist, as expressed in her politics. I will argue that through a multitude of different
discourses (films, advertising, reviews, interviews and spectatorship) Deneuve’s star
persona articulates, in the words of Dyer (1998: 34), the ‘contradictions within and
between […] ideologies’ of 1970s political culture.
As was discussed in Chapter One, the Giscardian era saw a contradictory approach to
the liberalization of French society, particularly in relation to gender. Giscard
d’Estaing’s approach to feminist issues, for example, was inconsistent and has been
accused of tokenism. For the cinema, the clearest evidence of these contradictions
between liberalism and conservatism was seen in Giscard D’Estaing’s liberalization of
censorship. We recall that this had specific consequences for the configuration of
gender in French cinema. On the one hand, the liberalisation of pornography is
testament to Giscard d’Estaing’s commitment to individual liberties. On the other,
pornography (as it existed in France during the 1970s) was ultimately a product that
simultaneously commercialized and policed desire (Hayward 1993: 244-245). Situated
within these conflicting discourses of the 1970s, Deneuve’s feminism is similarly
contradictory. Her films occupy an interesting position which is in a way analogous to
pornography’s containment of female bodies. Deneuve’s roles reveal that although she
expressed feminist views off-screen, on-screen her body and her characters’ desires
were contained and constricted.
Unlike Dewaere, who, we shall see, rejected organised politics, Deneuve was actively
involved in feminist campaigns (either through direct action or through the opinions she
espoused in interviews). In 1971, Deneuve joined several other public figures and
168
signed the ‘Manifeste des 343 salopes’. This was a petition published in Le Nouvel
Observateur which called for the legalisation of abortion and the increased availability
of contraception. Each of its signatories admitted to having had an illegal abortion. The
letter was unique not just in the eventual effect that it had but in that it brought about a
change in political process. It was the first notable public protest letter led by women in
France – where the practice of writing these sorts of letters (by men) is common.
Abortion would eventually be legalised in 1975, but this letter was seen as an important
part of the campaign for this legislation. It acted as a catalyst for several acts of protest
in the following years.105 Deneuve thus took part in a pivotal moment in the French
feminist movement.
We can find further evidence to support Deneuve’s feminist star persona in the
interviews she gave during the 1970s. When asked her thoughts regarding feminist
causes, Deneuve openly declared herself a feminist and emphasised the importance and
magnitude of feminist issues. Here is an example taken from an interview conducted in
1974:
-Catherine Deneuve, are you a feminist in the true sense of the word?
- Of course. Even without campaigning, one cannot not be. It is vital to feel affected because one is
implicitly. (Germain 1974)
.
Deneuve’s engagement with feminist issues (at least at interview level) seemed to
extend to her understanding of the cinema. She demonstrated that she was aware of
questions of representation and spoke sensitively about the portrayal of women onscreen (Alion 1978). Deneuve argued in interviews that, unlike other actresses, she
105
See Avortement (1974) (George, 2002). In this documentary key figures (including the former Minister
for Justice and Catherine Deneuve herself) attest to the importance of this political moment in the
liberalisation of abortion.
169
specifically sought out roles that allowed her to occupy an active position. She also
suggested that an increased presence of women filmmakers would perhaps create more
active roles for actresses (Esposito, 1978b). Yet her own practice seems to go against
these stated beliefs, Deneuve herself only worked with one female director during the
1970s (Nadine Trintignant), despite the fact that in the late 1970s there was a
considerable increase in the number of women filmmakers making feature films
(Hayward, 1993: 244). This inconsistent approach to the politics of representation is
highlighted by the following statement made by Deneuve in 1978:
Sometimes, it’s true that I accept to do things that seem to me to be contradictory with what I think or
with how we should represent women today. I accept the idea that there are contradictions in what I do, in
certain roles. […]I will never accept really misogynist things, but I accept certain things when it doesn’t
seem to me too serious, it’s true (Alion, 1978).
This quotation begins to reveal the conflict between Deneuve’s opinions espoused offscreen and her own films. As I shall argue in the discussion that follows, contrary to
Deneuve’s claims, several of her films could be seen as misogynistic. Moreover, in
relation to this quotation above, what I shall also reveal is how Deneuve, and as we
shall see in the following chapter Dewaere, were both victims of their desire to work
with auteur directors – causing them to compromise perhaps on their selfrepresentation. We shall see that, although both were driven to work with auteurs (either
for the challenge or for the artistic cachet these directors represent) both their star
bodies became damaged as a result of these collaborations. For Deneuve this damage
occurs at the site of her politics (which conflict with her films) and for Dewaere it
occurs at the site of his masculinity.
170
In the case of Deneuve, what seems to emerge within her work of the 1970s is a
contained form of liberalism that contradicts her off-screen political positioning. In her
films of this decade, Deneuve manifests a hyper-femininity. Michèle Sarde described
her as ‘a kind of ultra-woman in whom femininity is exacerbated to the point of
caricature’ (Sarde quoted in Vincendeau 2000: 204). What is meant by an ‘ultrawoman’ or ‘hyper-femininity’ is that through the mise-en-scène (particularly costume,
hair and make up) Deneuve displays a multitude of signs of gender that are culturally
coded as female. And in the case of Deneuve, as Vincendeau suggests, these signs of
gender resonate reassuringly with the continuity of past femininities during a decade of
immense change (Vincendeau 2000: 203). At a moment when heterosexuality was
being questioned by feminism, the Gay liberation movement, and new, alternative
representations of femininity in the shape of actresses such as Miou-Miou and Annie
Girardot, Deneuve’s hyper-femininity and status as desirable object go some way to
guarantee the heterosexual model.
In order to understand how and why Deneuve might display hyper-femininity it is
instructive to return to Butler’s discussions of the gendered body. We recall that
according to Butler (1999) our bodies are culturally constructed in order to normalise
heterosexuality. What is meant by this is that in order to ensure the perpetuation of
heterosexuality, the body displays signs that are understood culturally as either
distinctly ‘feminine’ or ‘masculine’. Butler explains that:
The heterosexualisation of desire requires and institutes the production of discrete and asymmetrical
oppositions between ‘feminine’ and ‘masculine’, where these are understood as expressive attributes of
‘male’ and ‘female’ (Butler 1999: 23).
171
In her films of the 1970s, Deneuve’s hyper-feminine body perpetuates this system and
institutes culturally intelligible divisions between ‘male’ and ‘female’ bodies. We shall
see that in these films Deneuve is configured as an object, and coded as feminine in
such a way that she is ideologically positioned to naturalize the heterosexual
dispositions that Butler describes here. Later in this discussion (and in the chapters that
follow), I shall show that Dewaere’s star body contradicts this system, and constantly
troubles the division between ‘male’ and ‘female’.
This process of objectification and ultra-femininity is one that Deneuve actively
colludes with through her off-screen discourses about herself as an actress. Deneuve’s
self-conception as an actress seems to suggest a desire to be controlled and moulded by
the director – which bizarrely contradicts her self-stated positioning as a feminist. It is
almost as if there are two separate entities within the same star body: Deneuve-theactress; Deneuve-the-woman-committed-to-feminism. This is what she says of herself
in her function as an actress:
Above all, I want to be an actress, I mean a tool, an object, the most efficient, the most malleable
possible, at the service of the director. If I am a star, it is not a situation that I have particularly sought out
nor prepared for – but that I do not reject: it allows me to choose my films, it gives me the time (and the
capital!) to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to a director, according to whether his work, or the script he proposes appeals
to me or not. (Abitan 1970)
Clearly, this desire to be positioned as an object undermines Deneuve’s independence in
her career and her position as a self-conceiving subject. At the moment of this interview
(1970) she was, as she explains in the quotation above, able to choose her films more
freely, and was even able to form her own production company, Les films de la
citrouille, which supported projects such as her film Zig-Zig (Szabó, 1975). Ironically, it
was also at this point of autonomy that Deneuve made a number of auteur films, which
172
seem to have exploited her desire to be an object at the service of the director. Deneuve
frequently expressed that she preferred to work with auteur filmmakers and actively
sought to work with those directors who were able to control her image106:
I principally believe in auteur cinema […] From the moment I start working with him, my confidence is
total. I count on him to discover one of my unseen faces, in order to reveal a new aspect of my talent. I
use the director in order to know myself better (Nouveau cinémonde 1970).
Deneuve’s desire to work with auteurs who controlled her image to the point of
objectification and denigration is, however, clearly in conflict with her declaration that
a) she is a feminist and that b) she had sought out active roles. In her films with Ferreri
and Buñuel, Deneuve becomes an object of sadistic and sexualised abuse. Since these
films were largely made between 1969 and 1973 (and therefore outside of this study’s
focus) they shall not be discussed in detail here. Ferreri’s Liza (1972) will suffice as a
brief example of the problematic content of these films. In the film Deneuve plays Liza,
a woman who having jettisoned her holiday companions, arrives on a deserted island,
alone. There, she meets Giorgio, a solitary painter who gives her food and shelter. Liza
falls in love with Giorgio and decides to stay with him on the island. However, Giorgio
is totally committed to his dog Mélampo and Liza becomes increasingly jealous of their
complicity. In order to get closer to Giorgio, Liza drowns Mélampo and offers herself as
a similarly subservient companion to Giorgio. The success of their relationship and their
achievement of happiness is sealed in this gesture. As their relationship continues Liza
becomes increasingly dominated by Giorgio. She no longer speaks, is entirely
dependent on him, and is frequently beaten. The film presents us with a deeply
humiliating version of femininity within the heterosexual model.
106
Between 1970 and 1974 Deneuve made 12 films, over half of which were made by auteur film makers
including Ferreri and Buñuel
173
From 1975 onwards, Deneuve continued to
work sporadically with foreign directors
and auteurs107, but her filmography also
diversified as she sought increasingly to
make comedies with directors such as
Rappeneau, Santoni and Robert, or work
with other French directors such as
Lelouch. Although the objectification of
Deneuve in these later, more mainstream,
films was perhaps less explicit than that
FIG 12: Publicity material for Liza (Ferrerri,
1972)
which occurred in her auteur films of the
early 1970s, on-screen Deneuve’s star-
body continued to be manipulated by directors.108 In order to illustrate this argument
there are two key films I would like to mention: Courage fuyons (Robert, 1979) and A
nous deux (Lelouch, 1979). These films have yet to be given critical attention, and
further they were produced at a key moment in French feminism – that of its decline. In
their anti-feminist rhetoric they can be seen as symptomatic of their actual political
context. Courage fuyons and A nous deux were produced in 1979, and coincide with the
beginning of the decline of the women’s movement and the rise of antifeminism in
France (Allwood 1998: 30). In both films, we can trace reactions against the
107
For example, Deneuve capitalised on her Amercian Chanel advertising campaign by featuring in
March or die (Richards, 1976). Deneuve also worked with three Italian directors (Il cassato (Citti, 1977),
La vita interiore/ An interior life (Barcelloni, 1979) and Anima persa/ Lost soul (Risi, 1977) (which was
the sole France/ Italy co-production she made in the latter part of this decade).
108
Le Gras has described Deneuve as: ‘a desirable figure often reduced to silence’ (Le Gras 2005: 271).
Contrary to this observation, critics remarked that by the time Deneuve made A nous deux, the star
appeared more relaxed and dynamic than in her earlier work, and moved on from what Le Gras describes
as ‘interiorized’ performances (see for example Chazal 1979; and Minute 1979). Despite this, the film and
its critical reception continued to objectify Deneuve. Reviews of A nous deux (Chazal, [1979] and Minute
[1979]), focused on Deneuve’s image, and both make particular reference to her beauty and her natural
and un-made-up look, often sidelining her actual performance.
174
liberalisation of the female body. Both films can be read as attempts to fix the star as an
object of desire, in ways that undermine Deneuve’s stated politics.
In A nous deux Deneuve plays Françoise, a bourgeois woman who is raped whilst
working at her family’s pharmacy. This attack provokes her to embark upon a campaign
of revenge against men by bribing husbands who have had extra-marital affairs with
her. Françoise’s bribery leads her into trouble with the police and she goes into hiding.
At the safe house Françoise meets Simon (Jacques Dutronc), a young criminal who
opposes her in class and in background. Against the odds, they come together in order
to flee the authorities. Gradually, as she and Simon become closer Françoise loses her
hatred of men. The film ends with the couple having escaped to the United States where
they work as musicians in a hotel.
In A nous deux Deneuve’s character is punished for the disruptive use of her sexuality,
and her desire for revenge and emancipation is actively ‘policed’ (to recall Hayward).
Françoise’s transgression beyond the boundaries of what is perceived to be an
‘acceptable’ form of female sexuality leads her into trouble with the police and
patriarchal law. In accordance with this, whilst hiding out, a male character launches a
caustic speech at Françoise (whom he sees reading a feminist book), in which he
criticizes the emancipation of women. Lelouch’s message that Françoise has stepped
out of her boundaries is further reinforced by an incident that occurs towards the end of
the film. On their way to the American/ Canadian border Françoise and Simon stop at a
road-side café. Here they encounter a group of young people who begin to harass
Françoise. At the height of the confrontation one of the young men brandishes a mask
shaped as a false penis at Françoise.109 The incident recalls her earlier rape by a gang of
109
Through their interaction with each other, we also observe that the group are bisexual. Thus, Lelouch
casts alternative sexualities as dangerous and further reifies the heterosexual model.
175
youths. This time it is Simon who removes them from this potentially threatening
encounter, and leads Françoise out of the café brandishing his gun (his phallus) at the
young people.110 This incident reminds the spectator that Françoise’s retaliation against
men is futile and that her only possible sanctuary will be found within a heterosexual
couple, a point to which I shall return.
Released in the same year as A nous deux, Courage fuyons can be similarly seen as a
popular manifestation of dissent from feminist politics in its narrative and in its
objectification of Deneuve. Courage fuyons follows the unlikely relationship between
Martin Belhomme (Jean Rochefort) a pharmacist who lives a mundane and cowardly
existence, and Eva (Catherine Deneuve), a successful and apparently independent
singer. Eva is portrayed as a sophisticated and liberated woman who has multiple
lovers, no familial ties and no fixed abode. Martin, by way of contrast, is conventional
and conservative. Although very reluctant, Eva agrees to marry Martin. We assume her
reluctance originates in her apparently liberated mores. However, we soon learn that she
is in fact a mother and married to a tyrannical American who declares ‘I’m the boss’.
Eva pleads with Martin to negotiate with her husband her separation from him. Eva is
thus ultimately depicted as a woman dependent on both her husband and her lover. The
film delimits her emancipation and safely contains her within the narrative.
In Courage fuyons Deneuve is positioned unquestionably as the object of desire.
Deneuve’s character is a star and is positioned as such within the mise-en-scene and
also the narrative. Eva’s costumes are made of elegant, delicate fabrics that, with her
flowing hair, soften her appearance. Eva’s immaculate, coordinated and contained
appearance contrasts dramatically with Martin’s awkward and dowdy dress. When
Simon’s use of the gun in this scene highlights Françoise’s powerlessness since she repeatedly refuses
the use of a gun.
110
176
Martin attempts to appear more masculine or successful by changing his dress style, he
becomes a point of ridicule – even to Eva. Eva also stands out dramatically from the
leather jacket wearing soixante-huitards who initially introduce the couple (the film
takes place during 1968). From Eva’s first entrance the spectator is encouraged to adopt
Martin’s adoring gaze. When Martin first spots Eva through a window, cast in the
morning sunlight, Deneuve is literally framed as the desirable object, therefore
conditioning her visibility.111
To summarize, by positioning and stylizing Deneuve as an object of desire, she is fixed
within the text by the male gaze, and her gendered identity is secured. We recall that,
according to Butler, this configuration of discreet genders reproduces compulsory
heterosexuality. Thus, within Deneuve’s films of the 1970s, the institution of the
heterosexual couple becomes central. In this decade, Deneuve’s films, be they comedies
(as with Le Sauvage, Courage fuyons or Ils sont grands ces petits; Santoni, 1979), or of
another generic identity, Liza, (L’Agression; Pirès, 1975, or A nous deux), all feature
heterosexual relationships which are born out of extraordinary circumstances, and yet
are inevitably successful. Consequently, at a time when the heterosexual couple was in a
state of flux, Deneuve’s films repeatedly suggest the need for the unification of man and
woman. This of course contrasts dramatically with Dewaere’s films, which are
frequently characterised by his characters’ lack of success with women and his failure to
establish stable heterosexual relationships (see in particular Les Valseuses, F. comme
Fairbanks, Série noire, Beau père).
There are only two Deneuve films of the Giscardian period which in any way challenge
representations of her as contained heterosexuality. The first is Zig-Zig, the second –
111
I am borrowing this term from Judith Mayne (1993: 169)
177
with Dewaere – is Hôtel des Amériques. Before coming to her work with Dewaere, I
want first to pause on Zig-Zig because it is the only film in which steps are made to
challenge this pattern, albeit with limited success. This film provides us with an
interesting contradiction to the rule and points to the (limited) potential for alternative
expressions of desire within Deneuve’s films of the 1970s112. In Zig-Zig Deneuve plays
Marie, a cabaret singer, who dreams of a better life beyond Pigalle with her friend
Pauline (Bernadette Lafont). The pair perform together at a cabaret club, where they
effectively advertise their other services – prostitution. Their motivation for prostituting
themselves is their desire to buy a house and a better life together in the mountains, a
dream which would break the heterosexual mould. However, this dream is represented
as flawed and unlike the improbable partnerships of Courage fuyons and A nous deux, is
ultimately thwarted. Secretly, Pauline has a relationship with one of the musicians at the
club, and helps him to carry out a kidnapping. Marie eventually discovers Pauline’s
treachery and notifies the police of her involvement in the kidnapping. Despite this,
Marie forgives Pauline and the pair declare their love for one another, exchanging their
only kiss of the film. However, Walter, Marie’s ex-lover, finally prevents any happy
unification of the two women. Walter pursues Marie throughout the film and has
homicidal tendencies towards her potential partners. As the two women embrace,
Walter shoots Pauline and she dies in Marie’s arms. Both through Pauline’s treachery
and her eventual murder, the film shows that female relationships are impossible.
Consequently, although Zig-Zig presents the possibility of alternative desiring positions,
Marie is punished for her love for Pauline, and heterosexuality cuts the possibility of
lesbian desire short.
112
Écoute voir (Santiago, 1977) is the only other example of a 1970s Deneuve film in which lesbian
desire appears. In the film Deneuve kisses Annie Parillaud. Unfortunately, this film is unavailable both in
France and the UK and I have therefore not been able to include it within this study. Interestingly,
however, it appears to have been recuperated by certain French websites who suggest that whilst Deneuve
does not actually play a lesbian in the film, Écoute voir offers potential spectatorial pleasure to Lesbian
audiences. See ‘Deneuve et nous’, http://degel.asso.fr/culture/people/people101.php (last accessed
17.04.06) (Dégel is an organisation that represents Gay and Lesbian students).
178
Unlike Deneuve, in Dewaere’s films, same-sex friendships often provide his characters
with temporary protection and solace from the heterosexual relationships, which, as we
shall see, serve to highlight the fragility of Dewaere’s masculinity. Moreover, unlike in
Deneuve’s films, the same sex friendships that emerge in Dewaere’s films are often
counterproductive to the success of the heterosexual partnership. It is also important to
note that within these male friendships, Dewaere’s vulnerability, which is often
underscored with a degree of violence (either towards others or later in his career
towards himself), complicates these friendships to such a degree that the sexual drives
behind/ within them become even more ambiguous (as is certainly the case in Les
Valseuses and in Série noire), therefore further undermining the stabilised heterosexual
partnership.
Hôtel des Amériques clearly illustrates the continuation of this pattern in Dewaere’s
films. For Deneuve, however, the film breaks the cycle of contained heterosexuality that
dominates her 1970s films. Compulsory heterosexuality is ultimately questioned by
Deneuve’s only film with Dewaere: Hôtel des Amériques. In contrast with the rest of
Deneuve’s films made during the Giscardian presidency, Hôtel des Amériques depicts
the impossibility of heterosexual relationships (Forbes, 1992: 255-256). In Hôtel des
Amériques, Deneuve plays a recently bereaved anaesthetist (Hélène) living in Bordeaux.
In a minor road accident she meets Gilles (Dewaere), a man working intermittently at
his mother’s hotel and for the local tourist industry. The pair begin an unlikely romance.
However, this time the characters’ differences are reflected in the unsuccessful outcome
of the relationship.
179
Unquestionably, Téchiné was a key authorial force behind this contestation of the
heterosexual imperative. Forbes (1992: 253) notes that in the film Téchiné denies
Deneuve star status and, to an extent, he destabilises the latter’s position as an object of
desire. One way in which Téchiné achieves this destabilisation is through Deneuve’s
costume. Unlike the flattering, colour coordinated outfits that Deneuve wears in
Courage fuyons, here Deneuve largely wears bold, clashing primary colours cut by
straight lines. Although the colours attract the eye, they do not function to highlight the
feminine contours of Deneuve’s body and instead make a statement that is almost
separate from her body. Although these outfits break up Deneuve’s body, it is not in a
way that fetishizes her femininity. Similarly, Dewaere’s own performance also
destabilises Deneuve’s star body in the film. Gilles’ unpredictable and inconsistent
affections for Hélène (arising from within his own crisis of identity), do not guarantee
her status as the ‘feminine object’ to be retrieved and controlled as she was often
represented during this decade. Thus, since she is not objectified, in Hôtel des
Amériques, Deneuve is unable to guarantee the heterosexual unit in the same way as she
does in her other films of the 1970s.
Téchiné’s desire to push the boundaries of the star body did not stop with Deneuve, the
director also sought to challenge earlier incarnations of Dewaere’s star body113:
It seemed to me interesting to accentuate his fragility, to consider him as a sensitive individual, and not as
the virile man that he had sometimes played. In one sense, he didn’t like this, at the beginning of the
shoot he and I were not in agreement as to our respective conceptions of the character […] He said to me
that he had never felt as stripped bare, as naked as he had in this film. (Le Guay and Varene 1981: 40)
113
Moreover, the exploration of same sex relationships is key to Téchiné’s oeuvre (Marshall, 2002: 2).
180
By accentuating Dewaere’s fragility, Téchiné simultaneously (but differently from the
way he treats Deneuve) questions the structure of heterosexuality, which we recall is
held together by ‘the production of discrete and asymmetrical oppositions between
“feminine” and “masculine”, where these are understood as expressive attributes of
“male” and “female”’ (Butler 1999: 23).
However, we cannot claim that
Téchiné acted as the sole orchestrator
of
the
destabilisation
of
the
heterosexual couple in Hôtel des
Amériques. Contrary to Téchiné’s
claims, Dewaere’s star body was
already coded with vulnerability prior
to the Hôtel des Amériques. This
FIG 13: Deneuve and Dewaere in Hôtel des
Amériques
vulnerability is often a key factor in
the deterioration of Dewaere’s characters’ relationships. Whereas in Deneuve’s films of
the 1970s the heterosexual couple reigned supreme, in Dewaere’s films alternative or
destructive social units are formed (see Série noire, Les Valseuses and Préparez vos
mouchoirs). Moreover, Dewaere’s characters’ relationships rarely follow an
unambiguously heterosexual model.114 It is thus unsurprising that in Hôtel des
Amériques Dewaere’s character’s dysfunctionality compounds the failure of the couple,
and that at the beginning of the film (at least) his most successful relationship is
‘implicitly homosexual’ (Forbes, 1992: 255). Gilles’ inability to perform or control
signifiers of masculinity (e.g. stable employment) combined with his ambiguous
sexuality, trouble his gendered identity and the anticipated heterosexual imperative of
114
See Themroc, Les Valseuses, La Meilleure façon de marcher, Série noire, Préparez-vos mouchoirs.
181
Deneuve’s other films. Gilles is acutely aware of the ways in which his masculinity and
socio-economic position fall short of the ideal. This becomes clear when Hélène takes
Gilles to the house she should have shared with her deceased husband. Exploring the
house Gilles ventures into the loft where he finds an architectural model constructed by
Hélène’s husband. This symbol of professionalism and expertise underlines Gille’s own
inadequacies vis-à-vis employment. Embarrassed by this realisation, Gilles leaves the
house without explanation. After this point Gilles becomes increasingly resistant, and at
times violent, towards Hélène, as if unable to accept the inadequacies that she reveals in
him. Thus, whereas Depardieu is able to reconcile his different class background with
Deneuve’s on-screen, the differences between Deneuve and Dewaere are violently
exposed.
Interestingly, it was after her work with Deware that we see Deneuve move towards
more subversive roles in terms of gender and sexuality. Following this collaboration her
films of the 1980s and 1990s offer far more satisfying explorations of alternative
desiring frameworks (see Vincendeau, 2000: 206-210). Arguably, Hôtel des Amériques
allowed for the two sides to Deneuve’s star body (Deneuve-the-actress; Deneuve-thewoman-committed-to-feminism) come to the fore in subsequent films.
As for Dewaere, his positioning next to Deneuve violently exposes his failings and
fragility both on and off-screen (we recall Téchiné’s comment, cited earlier, which
noted that Dewaere felt deeply uncomfortable with his emasculated role). In addition,
Hôtel des Amériques also continued a consistent trend within Dewaere’s films: the
destabilisation of heterosexual partnerships as a result of ambiguous same sex
relationships and mutable gender roles.
182
Annie Girardot
Whilst limited in certain contexts, when in the presence of Dewaere, Annie Girardot’s
gendered body also responds in a subversive way, although of course in her other 1970s
films she often plays a seemingly more liberated role than Deneuve. Whilst Deneuve’s
on-screen star persona on the whole appears, with the exception of Hôtel des
Amériques, to have guaranteed the heterosexual model, Annie Girardot challenged this
framework during the Giscardian era. Girardot’s star persona reveals the rise of French
feminism in the public consciousness, and challenges the way in which women were
(and are) objectified on screen. Although there are clear links between Girardot and the
feminist movement through the subject matter of her films, there are also clear
limitations to this association. Firstly, unlike Deneuve she did not adopt or promote
feminist politics off-screen. Moreover desire and the body are contained within
gendered boundaries, albeit somewhat blurred. A further factor that compounds the
delimitation of feminist discourses is the centralisation of the individual rather than the
collective in Girardot’s 1970s films. The prevalence of the struggle of the individual in
her films reveals one of the central factors in the demise of French feminism at the end
of the 1970s: that of the movement away from collectivised ideologies (Allwood, 1998:
30). Through their focus on the individual, Girardot’s films point to the struggle of
feminism during the 1970s.
Whereas Ventura and Deneuve’s star personas are constructed around markers of
distinct genders (ultra-masculinity and hyper-femininity respectively), Girardot’s
gendered identity is less distinct. Close analysis of the mise-en-scène and critical
reception Girardot’s films indicate that her gendered identity is far from stabilised.
183
Whilst critics reviewing Deneuve’s contemporaneous films focus on the star as a
feminine object, the same critics describe Girardot not as a static or contained image
and instead focus on her gestures and the activity of her appearance115:
Simultaneously embodying the refusal to believe, the temptation not to listen, the determination to
survive, Annie Girardot is wonderful. She has to be seen, Gauloise in mouth and stethoscope on chest,
this tiny woman without fuss, with her hunter’s step, her cheeky vivacity, her funny flashing smile which
cuts emotion short. (Flacon 1976)
Flacon’s observations create an informal and dynamic image of Annie Girardot. As in
several other reviews, Flacon refers to the cigarette that constantly dangles from her
mouth. In these descriptions the sensuality of the mouth is not accentuated. Instead,
critics refer to her ‘bec’, a word whose familiarity speaks to the populism of Girardot’s
star persona. Moreover, the reviewer describes her smile as gouailleuse (cheeky), and
thus underlines the comic element of Girardot’s star persona which made her so
popular. Similarly, references to Girardot’s purposeful gait, to the constant presence of
the cigarette and the tools of her trade, the stethoscope, are more readily associated with
descriptions of male stars.116
The aesthetics of Girardot’s image therefore trouble binaries of gender. On the whole
she rejects traditional sartorial markers of femininity. In her films Girardot nearly
always wears trousers or ankle length skirts. These clothes allow her characters
movement and modesty. Girardot frequently wears mackintosh coats which have
buckles on the shoulder, a detail which gives solidity to her otherwise slender frame
(see for example La Gifle). Throughout the 1970s Girardot wore her hair cropped,
avoiding the pristine femininity of Deneuve. Girardot’s appearance was consistent with
115
116
Cross reference with critics’ descriptions of Deneuve in A nous deux for example.
See for example Vincendeau in her discussion of Gabin (2000, 72-73)
184
the functionality of her star persona. This sartorial functionality was also in keeping
with contemporaneous fashion trends:
The 1970s have found a difficult pathway through recommendations and prohibitions. At the top of the
major recommendations: clothes must be “wearable”, an almost obsessive demand, by which it is
generally understood clothes that are adapted to the daily life of women, and thus functional. (DelbourgDelphis 1981: 228)
On the whole, Girardot’s femininity is not objectified through mise-en-scène. However,
as with Deneuve, there is still an attempt by some critics to re-instate the markers of
gender that her star persona in fact in several ways destabilises. Take for example the
following description of her performance in Dr Françoise Gailland:
We sense that she [Annie Girardot] has loved this Doctor Gailland passionately, who she plays with
spirit, generosity, and – despite her masculine reflexes – constant femininity (de Baroncelli 1976).
Whilst the critic acknowledges her ‘masculine reflexes’, his use of the word ‘despite’,
and the conclusiveness of his final statement ‘constant femininity’ devalue and reduce
the otherwise gender transgressiveness of her performance. Thus, just as Girardot’s
movement between public and private spaces is ultimately contained, so too is her
transgression of the gendered body.
Le Gras has suggested that since Girardot on the whole avoids objectification in her
films of the 1970s, she is removed from the system of desire altogether (Le Gras 2005:
271).117 As Vincendeau has suggested, although Girardot is a mature woman in the
Le Gras’ observation is actually reflective of a resistance that existed in the 1970s to the idea of
liberalised, sexualised women, a notion that Vincendeau (Vincendeau 2007: 12) proposes in her analysis
of the film La Vielle fille (Blanc, 1971)
117
185
1970s,118 she is also able to plausibly play desiring women, which Vincendeau argues is
as a result of Girardot’s youthfulness during this period (2007: 7)119. Taking this into
account, I would argue that rather than being removed from the system of desire,
Girardot’s characters in fact experience and express the limitations within this system.
Girardot’s characters manifest desiring frameworks that challenge taboos of dominant
representations of desire, but which are ultimately contained.
This new version of French femininity is not, therefore, without its problems and this
section will show how Girardot’s star persona troubles, rather than revolutionises,
gendered identities. This section will focus primarily on three films: Juliette et Juliette
(Forlani, 1973), Docteur Françoise Gailland (Bertucelli, 1976) and La Clé sur la porte,
which was one of the two films Girardot made with Dewaere, the other being Le Grand
embouteillage (Comencini, 1979), which also starred Miou-Miou and Gérard
Depardieu. Although Girardot’s challenge to gendered identities was far more
consistent than Deneuve’s, I will show that, as with Deneuve, it is when working with
Dewaere that Girardot really challenged the boundaries of gender and family during this
decade. Unlike Hôtel des Amériques, however, we shall see that this challenge does not
cut off the possibility of a successful heterosexual relationship, and in fact brings out a
less threatening form of subversiveness in Dewaere.
In her 1970s films, Girardot consistently played the struggling individual, starting with
her first box office triumph Mourir d’aimer (Cayatte, 1970). Dr Françoise Gailland,
her next major success, provides a clear example of this trend. 120 The struggle of the
118
She was 40 in 1971 (Vincendeau 2007: 7).
Vincendeau also points out that Girardot contradicts the trend in French cinema of romances and
partnerships that revolve around a father-daughter dynamic (Vincendeau 2007: 14).
120
The use of language by critics reviewing Dr Françoise Gailland is striking in this respect. The
following comments made by one critic highlight the isolation and bravery of Dr Gailland’s struggle:
‘The character of Françoise Gailland, fabulously played by Annie Girardot, gives to Bertucelli’s film all
119
186
individual on-screen in this film is authenticated off-screen by Girardot’s own rhetoric.
She saw the film as her own personal battle. Girardot had been sent the original text by
the book’s author, Noëlle Loriot and thus initiated the project, however Girardot and
Bertucelli disagreed over the direction of the script and Girardot and Loriot eventually
re-wrote the film. In her biography Girardot reveals that she saw herself as being
intrinsically linked to this character and felt that the challenges facing the central
protagonist reflected her own experience (Girardot 2003: 134-136). Part of Girardot’s
on-screen struggle in the 1970s, clearly seen in Mourir d’aimer and Dr Françoise
Gailland, was her struggle to manage the different roles expected of women in the
changing socio-political landscape of 1970s France. On-screen her star persona
articulates many of the changes that French society underwent during the Giscardian
presidency, particularly those brought about by the French women’s movement. As
Vincendeau suggests Girardot’s characters ‘articulate in an exemplary manner the
socio-cultural changes that affected women in their appearance, their social life, their
sexuality and their relationship with the family’ (Vincendeau 2007: 7). As such,
Vincendeau argues, Girardot’s roles had direct appeal for female audiences
(Vincendeau 2007: 7).121
Jeancolas explains this appeal by pointing out that Girardot’s films brought feminism
away from the intellectual elite to the masses and represented this ‘watered down’
feminism. I would like to suggest, however, that although their lack of radicalism meant
that a more ‘acceptable’ face of feminism was represented, there are still worrying ways
of its strength: her fight against this cruel verdict, the trials of marriage, the problems given to her by her
two children, a girl and a boy upset by the upheavals of adolescence, her attempt at escape through a
hidden love affair, and her indispensably calm and close off mask […] It is a triumph of will and hope
against resignation, and an example – par excellence – of an act of faith in lie. (Chapter, 1976)
Below Jeancolas offers a similar interpretation of Girardot’s 1970s career, and nuances the way in
which Girardot embodies these socio-cultural changes: ‘Her success came during the years when
feminism, which was laughed at first by the broad mass of French people, was making incontestable
progress. (…) However, militant feminism remained unacceptable to the majority. It was tempered, in the
way you would water down a strong wine’ (Jeancolas 1979: 271).
121
187
in which Girardot is often ultimately contained by the narrative in her films. Before I
investigate this proposition further, it is important to address the ways in which her
filmography during the Giscardian presidency might engage with contemporaneous
feminist causes, and propose an un-objectified image of French femininity.
In Juliette et Juliette several of the French women’s movement’s campaigns are
foregrounded. In the film Girardot plays one of the eponymous ‘Juliettes’, an agony
aunt for a women’s magazine entitled Penelope. When a young woman, also named
Juliette (Marlène Jobert), is picked to be the face of Penelope the two Juliette’s begin to
question the way in which these publications propogate a sanitised and controlled idea
of ‘women’. The two Juliettes sabotage the planned feature which created an unrealistic
image of Juliette’s (Jobert’s) life. They clandestinely produce an alternative issue that
rejects articles that romanticise the couple or that encourage women to manipulate their
image in order to become more attractive to the opposite sex. Unsurprisingly, Juliette
(Girardot) and the rest of her team are sacked by the male management. In collaboration
with Penelope’s former editorial team Juliette (Girardot) sets up an alternative
publication entitled Les Femmes en colère (Angry Women), which attempts to
document the real desires of women.
Although Les Femmes en colère is not an organised women’s movement, it becomes a
loose collective that provides support to fellow women, and is thus similar to the many
women’s groups that sprung up at the beginning of the 1970s under the broader banner
of the MLF. The women live together at the paper’s headquarters. When it emerges that
several women in the editorial team have unwanted pregnancies a ‘Voyage avortement’
(Abortion trip) is organised to Holland. In its depiction of feminist campaigns and of
female friendship the film has parallels with the later L’Une chante l’autre pas (Varda,
188
1976). Female friendship is paramount between the women (unlike the characters
played by Deneuve during the 1970s). When Juliette (Jobert) argues with her husband
and seeks refuge at Juliette’s (Girardot’s) studio, the latter throws out the man she has
been in bed with in order to make way for the troubled Juliette (Jobert). Similarly,
though in love with a Canadian named Laurent, Juliette (Girardot) temporarily leaves
him in order to continue the campaigns of Les Femmes en colère.
The film is not, however, without contradiction in terms of its depiction of, and
commitment to, the feminist cause. In Girardot’s films the emancipation of her
characters is often contained by the narrative. This recalls Jeancolas’ observation that
Girardot’s films illustrated how ‘militant feminism […] was tempered, in the same way
you might water down a strong wine’ (Jeancolas 1979: 271).
Despite Juliette et
Juliette’s apparent commitment to the idea of female community, individualism is given
ultimate precedence over the collective. At the end of the film, the Juliettes’ respective
men get in to an implausible fight with a group of policemen, and are arrested and
subsequently imprisoned. On their release they are met by the two Juliettes. It appears
therefore that, despite the fact that little time has passed122 in which to instigate much
political change, Juliette (Girardot) has decided to recommence her relationship with
Laurent123. The men tell the Juliettes that during their imprisonment they have produced
their own magazine Les hommes en colère. This supposedly humorous egalitarian twist
so obviously functions to undermine the significance of the Juliettes’ own newspaper,
denying the importance of their original manifesto. We can thus draw similarities
between this ending and Deneuve’s films of the 1970s, which, although obviously less
committed to feminist ideals, also function to undermine female solidarity and
friendship.
122
We know that no more than nine months has passed since Juliette (Jobert) is still pregnant with her
husband’s child.
123
Vincendeau (2007: 11) notes that the film ‘brutally abandons its themes by the end of the film’.
189
Through its narrative Juliette et Juliette provides the most specific reference within
Girardot’s filmography to feminist campaigns during the 1970s. However, Girardot’s
other films from the 1970s reflect the way in which women’s daily lives changed during
this decade. In Juliette et Juliette it is within the workplace that Girardot’s star persona
begins her challenge to patriarchy and the boundaries of gender. This would be repeated
throughout her 1970s filmography. In this respect, Girardot’s gender transgressiveness
differs, we shall see, from Dewaere’s, who, via his characters is repeatedly positioned
outside of the space of work (as a result of unemployment [Coup de tête, F. comme
Fairbanks, Un Mauvais fils, Beau père], or due to his anarchic behaviour [Themroc,
Série noire]). In this respect, he contravenes the expectations of the masculine body
within dominant society.
The blurring of public and private boundaries common in Girardot’s films is consistent
with contemporaneous changes to the configuration of gender in the workplace. We
recall that during the 1970s there was an increase in the number of French women
entering the work place. This was in part facilitated by legislative changes brought in by
Giscard D’Estaing’s government (Frears 1981: 151). As a result of these changes,
divisions that had previously existed between the workplace and the home began to
blur. The concept of work also spread to the home during the 1970s. Marxist feminism
developed an awareness of the work which takes place within the home (Segalen 2000:
231-233).
In my earlier discussion of Ventura it was suggested that the function of his star body is
to create a hermetically sealed gendered space, in which masculinity is kept separate
from femininity, pointing to a reactionary conservatism that is patriarchally bound. We
190
recall that in La Gifle Girardot’s star persona ignores the limits set out by Ventura.
During the 1970s, Girardot displays an active, functional body that is frequently
associated with the processes of work. In Juliette et Juliette, Le Coeur à l’envers
(Apprédéris, 1980) Dr Françoise Gailland, La Clé sur la porte and La Revanche (Lary,
1981) Girardot is positioned within her working environment from the outset. Whereas
in Ventura’s films the work place marginalises femininity and domesticity in favour of
the ‘male family at work’, Girardot’s films merge private and public spaces. Compare
this with Deneuve’s 1970s films where the family is nearly always removed, or at least
sidelined. Within Deneuve’s films there is a denial that this blurring of boundaries was
taking place. However, with Girardot there is no such comfort zone – spaces are
blurred. For example, in Le Coeur à l’envers constant reference is made to Laure’s
transgression between public and private space, as a result of her job as a psychologist.
Interestingly, it has always been Laure’s inability to separate her work from her
domestic space that has led to a perception of her behaviour as transgressive. Laure sees
her clients in her home, and when they visit there is little division between the private
spaces of Laure’s home and the office. The door to her office remains open during
appointments and her son wanders into her office during her consultations. Her clients,
too, freely roam in her private space. Later in the film we learn that it was when Laure
began to train as a psychologist that her husband left with their son. Although the
spectator is encouraged to sympathise strongly with Girardot’s character (through, for
example, the close up), we are frequently reminded that Laure’s work, and her exhusband’s resistance to it, is the source of the family’s trauma. Since we are constantly
reminded of the trauma that work has provoked at the heart of the mother/son
relationship, Girardot’s star persona, via the vehicle of this role, blurs boundaries rather
than completely transgressing them.
191
Dr Françoise Gailland typifies this blurring between the private and public, and the
apparent consequences this holds. Girardot plays Dr Françoise Gailland, a highly
successful doctor who discovers that she has developed cancer. As a patient, Gailland
brings her personal experience of fear and illness into the public domain of her work as
a doctor. Similarly, when her teenage daughter (played by a young Isabelle Huppert)
discovers she is pregnant she goes to her mother to help her get an abortion. This blurs
the division of Gailland’s roles as mother and doctor, and once again confuses the line
between private and public spaces.
Confused roles and the troubled divisions between private and public spheres are no
more evident than in La Clé sur la porte, Girardot’s film with Dewaere. In the film
Girardot plays Marie, a liberated school teacher in a lycée (sixth-form). Marie is a
divorcee with several children of her own, who openly welcomes other children
(including those in her classes) into her home. The film’s title refers to the fact that her
door is always open (quite literally, the key is always in the door). Thus, both the home
and the school become spaces in which Marie acts as the educator and carer. Ultimately,
however, the porous divide between work and home in La Clé sur la porte has an effect
on the family. Marie’s daughter Charlotte becomes alienated by her mother’s close
relationships with her peers. Interestingly, it is the daughter who makes compromises in
their relationship and by the end of the film their differences are reconciled and
Charlotte adapts to Marie’s conduct. Within the film, it is Dewaere’s entrance as,
Phillipe, a potential partner for Marie, which creates the biggest rupture at the centre of
the home and within Marie’s roles as mother and teacher. This, combined with the
simultaneous arrival of a troublesome young pupil in Marie’s class, cause the latter to
question her roles both as mother and as teacher. I will now turn to the implications of
this destabilisation in this film, particularly in relation to Dewaere.
192
Although Cardinal expresses the
view that Girardot’s relationship
with a young doctor (Dewaere) in
La Clé sur la porte undermines a
feminist
message124,
I would
actually argue that it is only in
this latter film that we see a
Girardot character capable of
desiring successfully and without
FIG 14: Dewaere and Girardot in La Clé sur la
porte
shame. Marie has been divorced
for several years and remains on amicable terms with her ex-husband. Marie has long
since given up the idea of romance in order to care for her children and students.
However, it is the appearance of Dewaere as a young locum doctor, Phillipe, that
changes this pattern in her life. Philippe comes to Marie’s house to treat a young man
whom she has taken in after he is beaten up by homophobes. Marie is surrounded by
children (either hers or otherwise). Philippe is, however, undeterred by her role as a
mother and asks her out on a date. The couple quickly develop a mutual affection for
one another and he provides her with a temporary escape from her day-to-day existence.
When Marie and Philippe choose to sleep together, it is Marie who instigates it (thus
dismissing Le Gras’ claim that Girardot is removed from the field of desire [Le Gras
2005: 271]). Importantly, at the end of the film reconciliation is achieved between the
different sections of Marie’s life. Philippe, her students and her children organise a meal
for Marie in order celebrate these differing dimensions of her life. This final scene
allows Girardot’s character to happily occupy the different dimensions of her identity
Commenting on La Clé sur la porte Cardinal wrote that ‘Men do not believe that a forty year old
woman can be happy, express herself and lead a passionate life without a man at home. Our autonomy
embarrasses them perhaps!’ (Cardinal quoted in Vincendeau 2007: 13-14).
124
193
(teacher, lover and mother). It also suggests that an alternative family unit is possible,
and one that Dewaere’s character has been instrumental in implementing. Philippe not
only accepts that Marie works and has children, but he also directly encourages her
children/students’ participation.
La Clé sur la porte thus contrasts with the other Girardot films mentioned in this section
which all, through their narrative conclusions, punish Girardot’s characters for their
attempts to live a diverse life. It also contrasts with the narrative outcome of Hôtel des
Amériques and the films that Dewaere made with Miou-Miou, which shall be discussed
shortly. A reason that could be put forward is that of the timing of this film within
Dewaere’s career. Made in 1978, this film appeared at a moment of optimism for
Dewaere when he was experiencing greater individual success in his career.
Undoubtedly, in La Clé sur la porte, Boisset assisted this shift in that he was
instrumental in turning Dewaere’s transgressiveness into a successful experience, and
one that is unthreatening to the
audience. As we saw in the
Chapter Three, unlike the auteur
directors Dewaere chose to work
with (particularly Blier), Boisset
sought
to
extract
the
more
positive dimensions of Dewaere’s
star persona. Further to this it is
FIG 15: Dewaere and Girardot in La Clé sur la
porte
also worth noting that La Clé sur
la porte was made and released
shortly after the critical and commercial success in December 1978 of Dewaere’s other
film with Boisset: Le Juge Fayard dit le Shérif (Boisset, 1977). La Clé sur la porte
194
precedes Série noire (Alain Corneau, 1979), which as we shall see, marks the high point
of his acting but the beginning of his deterioration which was witnessed on and offscreen between 1979 and 1982. This could be one reason for the dramatic contrast
between the narrative outcomes of Hôtel des Amériques and La Clé sur la porte.
We might also consider the notion that given Girardot’s transgressive gendered identity
(which allows her to inhabit different roles and spaces, to varying levels of success), she
perhaps allows Dewaere’s own gender transgressiveness to exist on screen, in a way
which Deneueve’s alpha female identity could not. Although, as Vincendeau notes, the
majority of Girardot’s co-stars during the 1970s were ‘soft men, fragile or “in crisis”’
(2007: 15), this is not really the case with Dewaere. Instead, as Philippe, Dewaere is
solidly supportive. For example, when Marie is verbally abused by her daughter’s
boyfriend Philippe punches him. And yet this flash of violence or even virility is
underscored by his sensitivity towards Marie and her tentative desires. Unusually, in
contrast with Girardot’s other co-stars (Vincendeau 2007: 15), Dewaere is not seen as in
crisis as a result of feminism, but instead appears to function in harmony with its
secondary effects in this film.
Through the examples of Juliette et Juliette, Le Docteur Françoise Gailland and Le
Cœur à l’envers, we have seen that although Girardot’s characters in her films of the
1970s tend to challenge the frame of women’s bodies and the boundaries of the spaces
that these bodies occupy, they are often ultimately contained by the limitations of the
narrative. In this way, Girardot’s star persona also reveals the contradictions and lack of
commitment the French government had in its approach to the emancipation of
women’s lives. It is only when she encounters Dewaere in La Clé sur la porte that this
pattern is inconsistent, perhaps allowing for the engagement of similarly transgressive
195
gendered star personas. Moreover, in the presence of Girardot and Boisset Dewaere is
able to communicate transgressive elements of his star persona (for example, his ability
to desire outside the frameworks set by dominant society), whilst maintaining a
dimension of strength and virility (visible in his defence of Marie).
196
Miou-Miou
As the mother of his child and a
frequent acting colleague, MiouMiou was a key player in Dewaere’s
on and off-screen life. Miou-Miou
and Dewaere were together from
1973 until 1975. Their first acting
collaboration, in 1969, took place at
the Café de la Gare - an alternative
theatre
FIG 16: Dewaere and Miou-Miou (circa
1975)
group
whose
members
performed satirical sketches in an
intimate café setting (already discussed in Chapter Three) (Forbes 1992: 174).
Following this initial collaboration Miou-Miou and Dewaere went on to act in seven
films together, even after they had separated. In order to explore the particular
importance of Miou-Miou both in Dewaere’s professional and personal life, this section
will be longer than the discussions of other actors in this chapter.
Miou-Miou’s importance to 1970s French cinema is clear. Alongside Isabelle Adjani
and Isabelle Huppert, Miou-Miou was one of the most successful young actresses of the
1970s (Cinéma français 1976: 38; and Katelan 1997: 82).
In the 1970s she was
strongly associated with comedy, a genre which experienced enormous success with the
French public during this period. Miou-Miou worked with some of the most successful
and innovative comic directors of the 1970s (Gérard Oury, Gérard Pirès and particularly
Bertrand Blier and Georges Lautner). Off-screen, she invested in the future of French
197
comedy by sponsoring Le Splendide (Cinéma français 1976: 40), a café-théâtre group
which emerged after the Café de la Gare and produced directors such as Jean-Marie
Poiré, Patrice Leconte and Josiane Balasko.
Despite the key ways in which Miou-Miou’s star body engages with 1970s French
cinema, her career has yet to be given any critical attention. This section will begin to
address this oversight. It will look at how Miou-Miou’s background, including both her
time at the Café de la Gare and her working-class upbringing fed in to the construction
of her star persona. It will consider how, due in part to her class background, both on
and off-screen Miou-Miou can be seen as an ‘anti-star’ whose image and performance
were frequently coded as ‘natural’ or ordinary. This section will go on to show how,
during the presidency of Giscard D’Estaing (and even prior, during the latter years of
Pompidou’s presidency), Miou-Miou displayed, what I shall term, a permissive star
body. Permissive is used here to describe how, in the 1970s, Miou-Miou performs
permissive acts either in relation to sexuality, criminality, gender or class. Thus we shall
see that her body allows for the display of certain hitherto marginalised facets of French
society. Her permissiveness manifests itself through four channels. Firstly, in her open
display of nudity and sexual intercourse her permissive sexualised body is put centre
stage. Secondly, in several of her films she engages in criminal activity and thus
displays a liminal or criminal body. Thirdly, Miou-Miou’s ‘authentic’ class body
allowed for the permissive representation of working-class women. Finally, her refusal
both on and off-screen of the dominant aesthetics and functions of femininity projects a
permissively gendered body. Unlike Deneuve, we shall see that through narrative,
costume, language and performance Miou-Miou manages to unpick some of the
‘expressive attributes of “male” and “female”’ that Butler (1999: 23) describes. Thus,
an important aspect of Miou-Miou’s permissiveness is her mixing of masculine and
198
feminine signifiers within the same star body. We shall see that her ambiguously
gendered body has consequences for the perpetuation of the heterosexual model.
Moreover, contrary to what we saw in relation to Deneuve, where heterosexuality was
upheld as an institution, relying as it does upon the cultural distinctions made between
‘male’ and ‘female’ for its survival, Miou-Miou manages very effectively to challenge
the heterosexual couple – and in this light stands out in her difference from the other
stars discussed so far.
Central to my argument is that the four channels of Miou-Miou’s permissive body
challenge traditional social units and reject institutions such as the family and the law.
Given its sexual and social flexibility Miou-Miou’s permissive body lends itself to the
utopian film. This loose category of films emerged in the aftermath of May ’68 and
included films which depicted utopian or alternative existences. Between 1970 and
1976 Miou-Miou featured in five of these films which Smith (2005: 114-115)
characterises as ‘utopian’. In Themroc, L’An 01 (Doillon, 1971), Les Valseuses, Jonas
qui aura vingt ans en l’an 2000 (Tanner, 1976), and Ça va, ça vient (Barouh, 1970),
Miou-Miou’s permissive body helps to construct communities which are not built
around the heterosexual couple, and which survive through anarchic or, at times
criminal, activities. However, I shall suggest that, even in these so-called utopian films,
the subversive activities of Miou-Miou’s multifaceted body are limited, particularly in
terms of gender, and that the hope for a utopian existence in Giscardian France is, if not
futile, then largely circumscribed by the vestiges of patriarchy. I will argue that during
the final years of the Giscardian presidency (1977-1981) all but the most diluted traces
of a utopian collective disappear from Miou-Miou’s filmography, leaving the struggle
199
of the individual in its place, exemplified by La Dérobade (1977) and La Femme flic
(Boisset, 1981).125
Miou-Miou came to acting by accident. She was introduced to the founders of the Café
de la Gare in 1969 by her then boyfriend, Coluche. The group was run as a cooperative
and can therefore be linked to its socio-political context - the aftermath of May ’68.
Artistically, it found its heritage in absurdist theatre and turn of the century cabaret
(Forbes 1992: 174). Politicians (including Giscard D’Estaing and François Mitterrand)
recognised that the Café de la Gare expressed an important cultural interpretation of the
socio-political moment and attended their performances (Loubier 2002: 134). The
presence of these two opportunistic politicians gave an otherwise marginal theatre group
mainstream recognition.
The Café de la Gare’s cultural importance and legacy did not end with the brief visits of
politicians. It provided an alternative training ground for innovative actors such as
Miou-Miou and Dewaere, who as we saw in Chapter Three, both in their image and
performance style, went against the normal functions of French stars and altered the
dominant style of French film acting (Forbes 1992: 173). Accordingly, the (relatively)
new generation of directors such as Jean-Paul Rappeneau, Bertrand Blier and Claude
Faraldo, looking for a new breed of actors to carry this message, all began to source
actors from the Café de la Gare (Penso 1981: 25-29). Traditionally French cinema
actors have emerged from two strands of theatre, which are, to a certain extent, coded
by class. Vincendeau explains that ‘[b]roadly speaking, two strands of stage spectacle –
comic, singing and more proletarian on the one hand, and serious and culturally
respectable on the other – provided different types of training and repertoires’ (2000: 5).
Pourquoi pas! (Serreau, 1977) would be the exception of this rule. In Coline Serreau’s film two men
and a woman live (relatively) happy together. The three share public and private roles in ways which
break down power relations constructed by lines of gender.
125
200
Miou-Miou thus emerged from the more proletarian strand: café-théâtre. Interestingly,
Dewaere is influenced by both strands, in that as a child he worked in classical theatre
and yet was, as we know, unsuccessful in his attempt to join the conservatoire (Laubier
2002: 81). Both Dewaere’s parents were involved in café-concert where they performed
song and dance numbers (Laubier 2002: 36). Finally, it was of course the café-théâtre
which provided the spring board to Dewaere’s most notable success in Les Valseuses.
Before the group began to give public performances all the members contributed in
practical ways to getting the Café de la Gare launched. Miou-Miou contributed (not at
this point even knowing that she would eventually act in the group) by doing electrical
work, and moreover stealing tools from building sites and food from shops 126 (stealing
from bourgeois [capitalist] institutions in order to help her own radical project). The
unorthodox contributions Miou-Miou made to the establishment of the Café de la Gare
form an important part of her permissive star body and get reflected in the nature both
of the performances that she delivered there, and the films that she would eventually go
on to make. Miou-Miou noted in 1976 that in four of her films her characters steal from
supermarkets (Cinéma Français 1976: 39). Her on-screen criminality is thus
authenticated by her off-screen experience. Miou-Miou’s authentic criminality subverts
expectations of the feminine body within French cinema. Previously, criminality was
largely the domain of men (see my earlier discussion of the ‘male family’ in Lino
Ventura’s films). Where they do occur, crimes perpetrated by women are those of
passion (see Les Noces rouges (Chabrol, 1973), are motivated by their male partners’
coercion (see for example Jean Seberg’s dabbling with crime in A bout de souffle (JeanLuc Godard, 1959)) or are committed as a result of their mental instability. By way of
contrast, Miou-Miou’s characters’ crimes are motivated solely by her own desire for
126
See (Maillet, 1977: 22) for details of Miou-Miou’s initial involvement in the Café de la gare.
201
either economic equality (see Jonas qui aura 25 ans en l’an 2000) or for amusement
(see F. comme Fairbanks). Her criminality is not demonised (as it is with Deneuve in
La Sirène du Mississippi [Truffaut, 1969]), and her heroines are appealing (though not
simply for their sexual attractiveness). Miou-Miou’s genial criminality thus displays a
picaresque quality which would normally be associated with male heroes. 127
Miou-Miou’s background then, informed her identity as an ‘anti-star’ (Esposito 1989:
54). According to Esposito Les Valseuses established Miou-Miou, Dewaere and
Depardieu as ‘anti-stars’. What Esposito means by ‘anti-star’ is that these actors
retaliated (in their appearance, their bodies, their language and their uninhibited
behaviour) against prevailing notions of what a star was. Les Valseuses was MiouMiou’s first major box-office success and the film established the key features of MiouMiou’s early 1970s star persona, we note that from the beginning of her career in
cinema, Miou-Miou refused to accept the role of a star. Despite her numerous Césars
nominations128 she has never been to the Césars awards129 (Katelan 1997: 82). She has
often expressed her dislike of any kind of social event that publicly exposes her and has
persistently attested that she lives a normal existence (see for example Houze 1975: 9;
Cinéma français 1976: 40; and Maillet 1980: 23). Despite her refusal of the French star
system, however, she has remained popular with the public and during the late 1970s
early 1980s was one of the most familiar faces of French cinema (Maillet 1980: 23).
Critics have colluded in the creation of Miou-Miou’s anti-star persona. Reference is
often made to the fact that she continued to live in her native Brittany away from the
127
In earlier periods of French cinema history the proletariat had often been conflated with criminality
and thus coded as the ‘dangerous classes’ (Hayward 1993: 267).Since Miou-Miou’s criminality is not
depicted negatively she avoids being constructed in this way.
128
Miou-Miou has been nominated for nine Césars and won the accolade of Best Actress at the awards in
1979 for La Dérobade.
129
Vincendeau states that the Césars awards play an important role in the construction of the identity of
French stars (2000: 17).
202
public life of Paris (Cinéma français 1979: 26-27; and Cinéma français 1976: 40). The
perceived ‘normality’ of her behaviour off-screen has made her into a star with whom
many French women easily identify. One critic, for example, describes her as being part
of ‘notre famille’ (our family) (Katelan 1997:80). Arguably, the proximity Miou-Miou
experiences in relation to her audience began with Les Valseuses, her first major
commercial success. For Miou-Miou Les Valseuses was the first occasion that a young,
female working-class body had been ‘authentically’130 represented on screen:
In films, directors take great pleasure in showing working-class women as miserable, drab types. The
stars who play these parts love making themselves ugly, love ‘getting into the part’. It was the first time
ever that a film showed us just as we were (Miou-Miou quoted in Harris 2001: 27).
This opinion is corroborated by Josiane Balasko:
For us in 1973, the film was a complete shock, as was Godard’s Breathless for those who saw it at the age
of twenty. All of a sudden, there we were on the screen, characters just like us. (Balasko quoted in Harris
2001: 27)
The authenticity of Miou-Miou’s working-class body was one which was often praised
by directors and critics. This admiration perhaps derived from the way in which MiouMiou’s class authenticity resonated with contemporaneous films which engaged with
class issues.131 During the 1970s several French directors sought to authentically
represent the working class in their films. Thus for Rude journée pour la reine (Allio,
1973) a film about a working-class family, Allio developed characters from interviews
with people from that background (Hayward 2004: 186).
Authentically refers here ‘to the way an actor establishes a correspondence between the character as
played and the social norms of time’ (Dyer 1998: 21).
131
This preoccupation of 1970s French cinema is dealt with, for example, in Le Pull-over rouge (Drach,
1979), Rude journée pour la reine, and L’Horloger de St-Paul (Tavernier, 1974).
130
203
Miou-Miou encourages this process of identification by projecting authentic
‘ordinariness’ and by separating herself from the images of other, more established,
French actresses. In the following interview she contrasts herself with Catherine
Deneuve and instead finds parallels between herself and Annie Girardot:
If women see themselves in me, it’s because I also have their everyday life. If I couldn’t be normal
anymore, walk around, be at peace, go and pick up my kids, that would uproot me completely […]
[P]eople identify with me in the same way that they are able to identify with Girardot. Alongside us,
there are people that are looked at. When I see Catherine Deneuve, I can’t identify with her: she is so
beautiful that I’m fascinated […] Me, I’m not beautiful: I can be cute or I can be unhappy, I can be life
(Maillet 1980: 23)
In this quotation Miou-Miou suggests that her ‘normality’ originates in her ‘everyday’
lifestyle and in her image. She actively fuses her on and off-screen identities by
suggesting that her ‘normality’ allows her to perform varied film roles. She also
insinuates here that her ordinary appearance actually allows her more flexibility as an
actress since she is not trapped by beauty and the gaze it provokes (as is the case with
Deneuve). Her ‘ordinariness’ is a quality that all the café-théâtre actors exploited. As
Forbes observes in relation to Blier (a director who has worked frequently with MiouMiou and other café-théâtre actors), women performers from this tradition of acting
were permitted ‘the freedom not to be beautiful’ (Forbes 1992: 177).
Miou-Miou’s costume and make-up compliment this rebellion against beauty. Unlike
the contoured and physically restrained beauty of Deneuve, in the early to mid 1970s
Miou-Miou’s permissive star persona embraced an informality that broke many of the
codes and conventions of the French female star. Her off-screen image was casual, lowcost and eschewed rigidly gendered fashions. In her films of the 1970s, on the whole,
204
her physique was not overtly feminised by costume and she never wore structured
underwear to falsely construct ‘feminine’ curves. Miou-Miou’s loose fitting costumes
reveal that her frame is slight and her curves minimal. She is described as having an
easy, natural manner which compliments her unfettered appearance (Cinéma français
1976: 38). Interviewers often note her laid-back image. Take for example the following
interviewer’s observations: ‘Dressed in a four-franc jumper, modest black velvet skirt,
her long hair barely styled, Miou-Miou is definitely the most laid-back actress that I
have ever interviewed’ (Houze 1975: 9). Houze comments on her low cost and casual
appearance, and highlights her disregard for fashion. Unlike other 1970s stars such as
Deneuve,132 who were associated with luxurious fashion and perfume brands such as
Chanel and Yves Saint-Laurent,
Miou-Miou’s image was low-budget and
unsophisticated. Moreover, unlike Deneuve, her clothes are not over-invested with
importance – see for example Deneuve’s costumes in Belle de jour (Buñuel, 1969).133
Both on and off-screen Miou-Miou largely wore cheap, practical fabrics such as denim,
a low-cost material associated with work (Craik 1993: 194). Part of Miou-Miou’s
attraction to French audiences was therefore arguably her embodiment of ‘anti-luxury’
(Delbourg-Delphis 1981:231 and 237). Delbourg-Denis uses this term ‘anti-luxury’ to
describe how during the 1970s French women’s fashion became more practical and less
expensive. As a reaction to the global recession of 1973, from 1974 onwards (the
moment that Miou-Miou first came to widespread public attention) the French began to
spend less on women’s clothes (Delbourg-Delphis 1981:228). Miou-Miou’s relaxed
style might therefore be associated with this moment in anti-consumerism. As an antistar she fitted with the consumer’s desire for ‘anti-luxury’ and thus secured her
relevance to 1970s audiences.
132
Even Girardot was at times dressed by haute-couture designers during the 1970s. See for example Le
Cavaleur (de Broca, 1979) in which her clothes are by Nina Ricci.
133
For a discussion of these costumes see Vincendeau (2000: 201).
205
By wearing jeans, Miou-Miou referenced ‘anti-luxury’, and made a challenge to
gendered fashions. In the 1950s and 1960s jeans had largely be seen as a masculine
fashion. Originally associated with the working class, during the 1950s they became
signifiers of the rebellion of middle-class youth (Craik 1993:194). By the 1970s jeans
continued to be associated with youth but at that point were also worn as a unisex item,
and therefore mirrored wider changes in attitudes to gender roles. With her jeans, MiouMiou also often wore t-shirts both on and off-screen (see for example Pas de problème
and F.comme Fairbanks). Having originally been worn as a men’s undergarment like
jeans, the t-shirt had, like jeans, become a unisex fashion by the 1970s (Craik 1993:
215).
These androgynous
garments blurred the divisions
between male and female
previously created by fashion.
When
accompanied
with
fashionably long hair (Nii
2005: 591), men and women
were no longer divided by
sartorial signs of gender. For,
by
interchanging
and
exchanging sartorial signs of
gender,
FIG 17: Patrick Dewaere, Miou-Miou and Gérard
Depardieu (circa 1974)
men
and
women
parody one of the structures of
gender
normativity
(Butler
1999: 187). We recall that, for Butler the appropriation of mixed gender signs, can be an
extremely empowering and crucially, ‘un-gendering’ act (Butler, 1999: 156).
206
This blurring of gender boundaries is illustrated in the photo left of Miou-Miou,
Dewaere and Depardieu taken at the time of Les Valseuses’ release. The three actors’
clothes and hair are remarkably similar, with one or two key differences. In the photo
Depardieu’s hair is at this point cleaner cut than Dewaere’s (this photo was taken during
1974 when Depardieu starred in Pas si méchant que ça [Goretta, 1974] and Vincent,
François, Paul et les autres [Sautet, 1974] – neither of which required him to play the
long-haired loubard character of his earlier films). Each of them wears tight flared
jeans, Cuban heels or platforms, and a t-shirt or casual shirt. Tellingly, Dewaere
displays more signs of femininity than Depardieu. His waist is accentuated by a belt and
his shirt is unbuttoned in a v-shape (the buttons themselves are form of feminine
adornment). Each carries a ‘handbag’ of sorts (though Miou-Miou’s bag is more
overtly curved and feminised than the two men’s square shaped bags). They all also
wear or carry a bomber jacket. The mixture of feminine and masculine sartorial signs
displayed in this picture underlines the prevalence of unisex fashion in the 1970s, and
also the ambiguous or unfixed identities of the three young actors.
As with her clothes, Miou-Miou’s
make-up also defies conventions of
gender. Both on and off-screen her
make-up rarely highlighted her
feminine features. Although she
nearly always wore black eyeliner
and mascara to highlight her eyes;
her mouth and cheekbones were
FIG 18: Dewaere, Miou-Miou and Depardieu
in Les Valseuses
207
rarely accentuated.134 As Craik (1993) suggests, make-up normally functions to
guarantee dominant conventions of femininity: ‘In western cultures, it has become an
integral step to realising femininity as an achieved set of characteristics’ (Craik 1993:
158).
Miou-Miou’s informal and un-contained image is clearly illustrated in Les Valseuses, in
which neither the actress nor the character she represents conform to dominant
expectations of gender, sexuality and class in French cinema. In the eyes of the French
public the film established the actress as a permissive young woman with little regard
for conventions of law, class, sexuality or gender. Miou-Miou’s unfeminine disregard
for her appearance in Les Valseuses complicates dominant expectations of gender. Her
character Marie-Ange pays no attention to her physical appearance. Her clothes are
often carelessly thrown on with buttons left undone and she frequently walks around
barefoot (as she does in other films – see D’amour et d’eau fraïche). Miou-Miou’s
exposure of her feet is significant since the naked foot has long been associated with
permissive and non-conformist practices (Lyon 2001: 272-281). During the course of
the film Marie-Ange rarely changes her outfit, wears little make up and her hair (as
Miou-Miou’s hair is described off-screen by Houze) is dishevelled. Marie-Ange’s
attitude to her appearance contrasts with that of Pierrot and Jean-Claude’s. The two men
change their outfits with relative frequency in order to fit in to a given situation, for
example when trying to pick up women. Unlike Marie-Ange, on two occasions we see
the two men engage in prolonged grooming sessions during which they constantly
check their appearance in the mirror. Vanity and narcissism are qualities that reoccur in
Dewaere’s films (see for example Frank Poupart in Série noire who frequently checks
his appearance in the mirror and regularly combs his hair). Whilst this vanity does on
134
The accentuation and reddening of these features is an attempt to simulate the appearance of sexual
arousal according to Craik (1993: 158).
208
rare occasions serve to highlight a form of virility (see Catherine et compagnie), more
often than not Dewaere’s interaction with his mirror image underlines his inability to
embody an ideal image (see F. comme Fairbanks and Série noire) or the disintegration
of his sense of self (see the latter films, plus Beau père and Un Mauvais fils).
In Les Valseuses, Miou-Miou’s ‘natural’ and unfeminine image is matched by the free
and uncontained performance style she inherited from her time at the Café de la Gare.
Without any formal training Miou-Miou’s acting style is unpretentious and
unmannered. It is worth making the point that due to the tight confines of the space,
café théâtre produces performances that create intimacy between the actors and the
audience - a performance style which in Miou-Miou’s case crosses over to film.
Without big budgets or a proper stage, the physicality of the actors rather than the décor
was key to the effectiveness of the performance. Consequently, Miou-Miou’s acting
style is one which uses the entirety of her body and which eschews distance from the
spectator (unlike Deneuve’s performances which in their containment tend to separate
her from the audience). In this respect Miou-Miou’s performance style differs from
Dewaere, who also draws on his physicality to full effect in his performances, but does
so in a way that pushes him away from his spectators, an idea which shall be explored
towards the end of this thesis. The corporeality intrinsic to Miou-Miou’s performance
style leads to mobile performances that explore the movement and gesture of the body.
This mobility further challenges expectations of gender which, according to dominant
norms, depend upon the binary stasis ‘vs’ movement. Her performance style is
illustrated par excellence in Les Valseuses. Several scenes within the film are, as Harris
notes (2001: 67-68), constructed as self-contained comic sketches and are propelled by
the physical interaction of Dewaere, Miou-Miou and Depardieu. Harris describes, for
209
example, how in one comic scene, their physical performance whilst hitching at the side
of the road highlights the traits of each character:
[I]n a theatrical set piece, the characters’ qualities of failure, insolence and daring are intensified in the
stylised nature of their gesturing, and in the way in which they sit or lie. The physical type of each
character adds to this: the menacing frame of Jean-Claude, the carelessness and lack of inhibition of
Marie-Ange, and the comic cheek – facial and physical – of Pierrot are necessarily perceived as a
continuum, expressing ennui and contempt for their situation’ (Harris, 2001: 68).
In this scene, whilst Pierrot (Dewaere) actively attempts to stop a car and Jean-Claude
(Depardieu) watches, sitting, Marie-Ange simply lies on the ground, barefoot, no longer
even looking at the cars as they drive past.
Miou-Miou’s permissive and mobile performance in Les Valseuses is no better
illustrated than when Marie-Ange first experiences an orgasm. This scene illustrates
how Miou-Miou’s uncontained image and performance also point to her (relatively)
uncontained sexuality. In Les Valseuses Marie-Ange experiences her sexuality in a way
which challenges the boundaries of previous representations of female sexuality. In her
initial indifference to sex, Marie-Ange does not fulfil Pierrot and Jean-Claude’s
expectations of female sexuality. Finally though, Marie-Ange exceeds their expectations
by vociferously experiencing orgasm beyond the gaze of the two men or the camera
(Harris, 2001: 119). Having reached her climax with a young ex-convict (Jacques),
Marie-Ange immediately runs out of the house to tell Pierrot and Jean-Claude what has
happened, her dress barely covering her body. This sexual experience (which appears,
to a certain extent, to have been orchestrated by Marie-Ange), seems to provoke a more
assertive sexual desire of her own. Soon it is Marie-Ange who initiates sexual
210
intercourse with the two men and it is she who briefly introduces Isabelle Huppert to
their group (Harris, 2001: 126).
In contrast with Jean-Claude and Marie-Ange, Pierrot (Dewaere’s character) is never
able to initiate sexual encounters. Pierrot’s incompetence in this respect is consistent
with the position he occupies throughout the film, little brother in relation to JeanClaude and son to Marie-Ange. As I argued in Chapters Three and Four, and as I shall
continue to explore in Chapter Seven, which focuses on F. comme Fairbanks, Dewaere
occupied an emasculated position in relation to Miou-Miou and Depardieu. I would like
to now introduce this last film and briefly discuss it in the context of Dewaere and
Miou-Miou’s relationship.
F comme Fairbanks is a key example of this imbalance in power and follows the
relationship of a young couple played by Miou-Miou and Dewaere. Maurice Dugowson
wrote F comme Fairbanks specifically for the pair (although they split up shortly before
the film went into production). Marie (Miou-Miou) works in a travel agency and acts
with a theatre group in her spare time. Marie leads a liberalised life style. She shares a
house with two female friends and when she meets André (Dewaere) she is already
involved with someone else. Like several of Miou-Miou’s 1970s characters she
commits petty-crime and casually shoplifts with a friend. By way of contrast with
Marie’s permissive lifestyle, André has no independence. He lives with his father and is
unable to find employment. André feels threatened by Marie’s liberal attitude to
relationships and becomes increasingly undermined by her success compared with his
failure. As André’s state of mind deteriorates Marie becomes more and more like a
mother figure to him. On one occasion when André breaks down, Marie stands above
him, cradling his head in his arms whilst singing a lullaby. At the end of the film André
211
runs on stage in the middle of Marie’s performance in an attempt to make her leave
France with him. The confrontation ends in violence and André is finally taken away in
an ambulance. I shall analyse this film in greater detail in Chapter Seven, for the time
being, however, it is relevant to our discussion of Miou-Miou to highlight the fact that
F. comme Fairbanks marked the beginning of a pattern of self-destruction that would
mark Dewaere’s life both on and off-screen, and that it is, in part, Miou-Miou’s
permissive star body (visible in her character’s flexible attitude to institutions such as
monogamy and legality) that catalyses this trauma.
In F comme Fairbanks and Les Valseuses Miou-Miou’s characters serve to highlight the
troubled identity of Dewaere’s respective characters. In her own right, however, MiouMiou appears as a subversive presence in several of her films of the 1970s. In Themroc
(Faraldo, 1973), for example, one of Miou-Miou’s very first films (co-starring Dewaere,
although they do not act in the same scenes), the actress performs a challenging
representation of youthful sexuality. Faraldo drew heavily on the Café de la Gare when
making this film. Themroc features several actors from the group (including Dewaere,
Coluche, Roman Bouteille, Sotha, Jean-Michel Haas, Henry Guybet, Catherine Mitry,
Philippe Manesse and Gégé). Faraldo used these actors for their unfettered performance
style (Penso 1981:28). The physicality of their acting lends itself to the film which, on
the whole, disregards spoken language (this will be explored in Chapter Six, which
looks at this film in detail). In Themroc Miou-Miou plays a teenage girl who, along with
the rest of her family, is persuaded by their neighbour (Michel Piccoli) to violently rebel
against the shackles of their imprisoned existence, a life characterised by the monotony
and the convention of daily routines.
212
In Miou-Miou’s case, the teenager’s rebellion takes a sexualised form. From the outset
of the film she is seen sucking her thumb. According to Freud, this juvenile activity is
autoerotic and precedes masturbation. Perhaps realising that it will prefigure her sexual
development, the teenager’s father attempts to prevent this action, but Miou-Miou
defiantly continues to put her thumb in her mouth. Gradually the community in which
she inhabits becomes increasingly uninhibited. At the end of the film those living in the
flats surrounding the courtyard reach a collective climax of either violence or sexual
arousal. For Miou-Miou’s part her character moves on from thumb-sucking and begins
to openly masturbate in public spaces whilst listening to the collective orgasm of her
neighbours. Fulfilling her sexual trajectory, she then proceeds to lead a man into a room
to the side of the courtyard - we presume, judging by their body language, to have sex.
In its proposition of a new society based in carnal desire, Themroc finds itself within a
loose category of films that emerged in the aftermath of May ’68 which presented
supposedly utopian or alternative existences.
Between 1970 and 1976 Miou-Miou
featured in five of these films that Smith (2005: 114-115) characterises as ‘utopian’: Ça
va, ça vient (Barouh, 1970), Themroc, L’An 01 (Doillon, 1972), Les Valseuses (Blier,
1973) and Pas de problème! (Lautner, 1974). Arguably, the reasons for Miou-Miou’s
regular involvement in these films are three-fold. Firstly, these ‘utopian’ films largely
drew on comedy as their generic reference (Smith 2005: 114), a genre that Miou-Miou
was firmly associated with. Secondly, the acting style Miou-Miou developed at the Café
de la Gare (as we have seen in Harris’ analysis of Les Valseuses) allowed for close
physical interaction with her fellow actors, thus providing a sense of community
through gesture and bodily movement. Thirdly, Miou-Miou’s perceived lack of
inhibitions lent her to this category of films where sex is exchanged freely within small
communities as a utopian alternative to the heterosexual family unit.
213
Smith’s discussion of these utopian films, however, fails to address how this sexual
exchange reveals an imbalance in relations of power and their, at times, distinctly
dystopian representations of gender. This is particularly clear in Miou-Miou’s case.
Both Themroc and, in particular, Les Valseuses clearly reveal the flaws in an
interpretation of these films as ‘utopian’. On the one hand utopian films appear to
display Miou-Miou’s uninhibited sexualised body, whilst on the other hand they seek to
control it – largely through violence by Dewaeer and Depardieu characters. In the case
of Les Valseuses, the so-called mini-utopia (Smith, 2005: 115) is only initially formed
through the subjugation of Marie-Ange through violence. We note that when, at the
beginning of the film Marie-Ange attempts to integrate herself within the group of her
own accord (when she helps them to rob the hair salon where she works) they leave her
behind, having shot her in the leg and tied her to a chair in the shop. There is thus no
utopian free-movement of power in Les Valseuses at least for women. The construction
of their trio is initially almost entirely controlled by the two men, and Marie-Ange is
manipulated into helping them through violence and promises of affection which prove
false when she is discarded (treating her in much the same way as the vehicles they
steal, only to discard them once they become defunct). Even when Marie-Ange is more
fully integrated into the mini-community, she is still used as a sexual pawn to be
exchanged between Jean-Claude and Pierrot or ‘loaned’ to those they encounter (as in
the case with Jacques). However, as Harris has argued, towards the end of the film
Marie-Ange does begin to develop a more autonomous position within the group and is
no longer subjected to the same level of violence. Miou-Miou herself was very
uncomfortable with the sex scenes in Les Valseuses (Houze, 1975: 10).
214
Miou-Miou’s body is similarly mistreated in Themroc. Before the teenager begins to
explore herself sexually, when she is till at the thumb-sucking stage of autoeroticism,
she is raped by a group of police officers brought in to combat the rebellion. On the one
hand, this clearly can be read as an attack on the French police. However, on the other
hand, the teenager’s sexual awakening, prompted as it is by the act of rape, is one of
extreme violence. Thus in Faraldo’s film as in Les Valseuses, the female body is used as
a way of expressing the director’s political message, yet without any true consciousness
about the real issues of rape when it concerns women and certainly without allowing the
woman any genuine autonomy in the desiring process. In this way Miou-Miou suffers a
similar fate to Deneuve. We recall that Deneuve’s body and subjectivity were, on the
whole contained in her 1970s films. In the two actresses’ simultaneous embodiment of
liberalised mores and objectification, they are both analogous with pornography’s
contemporaneous containment of the female bodies. The utopias then (at least those in
which Miou-Miou appears) are far more directed to the satisfaction of the male
protagonists than the females who suffer far from pleasant encounters (in this regard
Pourquoi pas! is a rare exception).
By the late 1970s however, utopias are on the wane. In its depiction of the failure of a
self sufficient and harmonious community, Jonas qui aura 25 ans en l’an 2000 (in
which Miou-Miou stars) could be seen largely as an indication of the decline of the
idealism of May ’68 and the rise of the individual. Correspondingly, from 1977 MiouMiou moved away from films which focused on small communities towards films
which looked at individual struggles. We recall that this trend also appears in several
films made by Girardot during the 1970s and is indicative of the decline of collective
ideologies in France such as communism and the feminist movement. Miou-Miou’s
movement away from the ‘utopian film’ is also symptomatic of her movement away
215
from comedy at the end of the 1970s and beginning of the 1980s. Miou-Miou returned
to comedy with Est-ce bien raisonnable? (Lautner, 1980) 135, but in the years preceding
this film she had concentrated on dramas which were not reliant (as her earlier comedies
were) on the interaction of a group of actors – a prime example being her co-produced
La Dérobade (see appendix for further discussion of this film).
Positioned next to Dewaere at this point in her career, Miou-Miou does however
perhaps emerge as a stronger force. Whilst Dewaere’s characters (with certain notable
exceptions, including Mille millards de dollars [Verneuil, 1981] and to a certain extent
Un Mauvais fils), are resigned to their sorry predicaments – often trapped in unhappy
cycles of unemployment and dead-end relationships, Miou-Miou’s characters are often
successful both in their careers and in their love-lives (see Est-ce bien raisonnable?! for
example). Moreover, in the mould perhaps of Girardot, Miou-Miou’s characters show
determination and strength, fighting for their autonomy and beliefs (see La Femme flic
[Boisset, 1980]). Finally, Miou-Miou possessed what Dewaere, as we saw in Chapter
Three, desperately sought - the César award, which she had won for La Dérobade in
1979. Miou-Miou made the transition from an actor reliant on her contemporaries, to an
individual actor who was recognised and revered in her own right. As I suggested in
Chapter Three, this was a transition that Dewaere never felt he had made.
We have seen that Miou-Miou’s permissive body took part in several key moments
within 1970s French culture. Following her debut at the influential Café de la gare, in
the first stage of her career (1970 –1976) she developed an unusual acting style and
established herself as a comic actress. On-screen, Miou-Miou’s ‘natural’ image,
In some ways this film recalls the unorthodox groupings seen in Lautner’s earlier film Pas de
problème!. However, in Est-ce bien raisonnable? Miou-Miou’s character is assisted by a motley crew of,
on the whole, self-interested individuals, and overall the film is about Miou-Miou’s character’s individual
struggle for truth and justice. Whereas at the end of Pas de problème! Miou-Miou and her newly assorted
‘family’ sit and eat together round a table, in Est-ce bien raisonnable? the couple is the central focus of
the film’s conclusion.
135
216
permissive behaviour and unfettered performance style challenged dominant notions of
class and French femininity exemplified by actresses such as Catherine Deneuve. Offscreen, Miou-Miou refused the workings of the French star-system (interviews award,
ceremonies, public appearances etc.). Miou-Miou’s films also reveal important changes
in French political culture during the 1970s. Whilst films such as Themroc, Les
Valseuses and L’an 2000 all in some way present alternative communities, MiouMiou’s films from the later years of Giscard D’Estaing’s presidency (1977-1981) begin
to reveal the decline of the collective in favour of the struggle of the individual a trend
that also appears in Dewaere’s films – although as we shall see to completely opposite
effect, since his star body is on the whole positioned in an all-together more selfdestructive mode.
217
Part Two
218
Chapter Six
Dewaere’s Carnivalesque Body:
Themroc (Faraldo, 1973)
219
Chapter Six
Dewaere’s Carnivalesque Body: Themroc (Faraldo, 1973)
Themroc (Faraldo, 1973) was Dewaere’s first truly important film following his
‘rebirth’ at the Café de la Gare. Although he had played very minor roles in La Maison
sous les arbres (Clément, 1971) and Les Mariés de l’an II (Rappeneau, 1970), Dewaere
felt that Themroc was the first film that allowed him to understand his function as a
screen actor (Penso 1981: 29). For Dewaere, Themroc aided the liberation of his actorly
body. The film represents the culmination of the work he had done at the Café de la
Gare in that it relies on performances, which are channelled through the physicality of
the body. As we recall the performances at the Café de la Gare were reliant on
collaboration and exchange between the members of the group, and as such were rooted
in the physical, a feature that is clearly seen in Themroc. Dewaere felt that the film
helped him develop a better understanding of film acting, as he explains below. I
include both the English and French versions of Dewaere’s statement here since the
original language is particularly revelatory:
It was the first time that I understood exactly what you had to do in the cinema. The theatre is so
different. In theatre you have to give the maximum from within yourself. And I love to work like a dog.
You have to play for the public. In the cinema, you only have to act in relation to your co-actors and
solely in relation to them. At the cinema everything happens in the head (C’est la première fois que j’ai
compris ce qu’il fallait faire au cinéma. Le théâtre est tellement différent. Au théâtre il faut donner le
maximum en soi. Et j’aime me ‘défoncer’. Il faut jouer pour le public. Au cinema, on ne doit jouer qu’en
fonction de ses partenaires et uniquement en function d’eux. Au cinema tout se passe dans la tête).
(Dewaere quoted in Penso 1981: 29)
Firstly, instead of stating that he gave the maximum ‘of’ himself in theatre acting (this
would require him to use the preposition ‘de’, and would suggest a physical detachment
220
from the process since ‘de’ can also imply ‘with’), he uses the preposition ‘en’, which
communicates the fact that Dewaere’s performance came from within himself, from
within the very core of his being and crucially, his body. The second key point to make
in relation to this quotation is that when Dewaere states that he ‘liked to work like a
dog’ (me défoncer), the French can literally be translated as ‘he liked to break himself
up/ collapse himself in’. Bearing these linguistic connotations in mind, we can link this
quotation back to observations made in Chapter Three regarding Dewaere’s selfdestructive performance style, which ultimately saw the collapse of his body and his
self. It is, however, important to note that this statement (given the fact that it was said
in relation to Themroc, which was made during a very content period of Dewaere’s life)
is a positive declaration of his (physical) enthusiasm and passion for acting.
Nonetheless, the observations I have made on language here resonate with the
development (or disintegration) of Dewaere’s identity in later life.
Themroc adopts a pivotal position within Dewaere’s filmography for a number of
reasons. Firstly, through its anarchism, the film situates Dewaere within the sociocultural context of the aftermath of May ’68. Secondly, given the large number of Café
de la Gare performers in the film, Themroc documents both the group’s acting style and
its cultural importance at the beginning of the 1970s. However, in Themroc, as I shall
later argue, of all the Café de la Gare actors, it is Dewaere’s performance that achieves
the greatest recognition from the spectator. Thirdly, the film’s narrative corresponds
interestingly with Dewaere’s own contemporaneous metamorphosis as an actor and as
an individual.
In the film Michel Piccoli plays Themroc, a worker who is repressed by the monotony
and routine of his life and is unable to express himself. During the course of the film he
221
gradually undergoes a process of renaissance, which allows him to express himself
sexually and socially. At the beginning of the film we follow Themroc’s monotonous
daily routine, tracking his movements from the breakfast table to his place of work.
Although apparently trapped within his mundane existence, Themroc begins to show
increasingly transgressive behaviour, which is largely of a sexual or violent nature. As a
result of his unruly conduct, Themroc is quickly dismissed from work. He returns home
and begins to create a cave dwelling at the centre of his mother’s apartment, knocking
out an exterior wall and discarding her belongings (including furniture and a television)
onto the courtyard below. The flat is left stripped of all accoutrements and is opened up
so that it is entirely visible to neighbours and passers by. The cave provides the perfect
stage for Themroc to pursue the open-ended (sexual) relationships that he desires.
Themroc’s new lifestyle spreads, before long, to his neighbours, and they too begin to
free themselves socially and sexually. This collective liberation reaches a climax on the
appearance of Dewaere, who provokes the ultimate in unrestricted sexual exchanges
within the film. Although Dewaere plays various minor roles in the first and middle
sections of the film, his most notable performance is at the end of the film when he
performs the role of a bricklayer who comes to brick in Themroc’s ‘cave’. Watched by
neighbours, officials and the police, Dewaere’s character begins laying the new bricks,
whistling as he works. He is gradually drawn into a collective sexual act, not solely with
Themroc and the other cave dwellers, but also with the local residents who are
disparately connected to the experience. However, the series of juxtaposed images of
entrapment that we see right at the end of the film leaves us with the impression that this
liberation is transitory, and that soon these temporarily liberated bodies will once again
be imprisoned.
222
The anarchic freedom that we witness in Themroc is largely communicated through the
body. In the film the characters express themselves through their body rather than any
clear use of language. They reject the use of words and instead articulate their needs and
desires through grunts, squeals and moans. This rejection of spoken language goes
against the workings of the Symbolic. By rejecting language, Themroc and his
companions not only reject the language of the Father (and therefore patriarchy) but
they also reject lack, since as Moi explains:
The speaking subject only comes into existence because of the repression of the desire for the lost mother.
To speak as a subject is therefore the same as to represent the existence of repressed desire: the speaking
subject is lack, and this is how Lacan can say that the subject is that which it is not. (Moi 2002: 97)
It is important to note that, during the 1970s, the concept of ‘feminine language’
(écriture feminine), or ‘writing said to be feminine’ as Hélène Cixous proposes, was
central to feminist cultural debate (Moi 2002: 102). Within this debate, certain women
writers/ filmmakers, such as Marguerite Duras, used silence/ lack of language as a site
of resistance, as a means by which to prendre la parole (recover speech) (Forbes 1992:
79). Forbes summarises that, for many 1970s French feminists: ‘The intellect in general,
but particularly the power of speech, is criticized as conventionally opposed to the body,
and the repression of the body is frequently seen as the condition of all discourse’
(Forbes 1992: 79). However, in Themroc, the refusal to enter into speech is hardly a
feminist one – as we have seen in my discussion of Miou-Miou’s role in the film,
women are still subjected to patriarchal/ sexualized violence and are often infantilized.
Doubtless Faraldo’s anarchy, whilst attacking patriarchy, notions of class and the
ideology of the Fifth Republic, had very little resonance with the feminist movement of
the times.
223
Freed from the conventions of verbal language, and thus to a certain extent the
constraints of patriarchy and lack, Themroc (Piccoli) and his neighbours discover an
unrepressed, joyous physical freedom, which is revealed in their voracious sexual
appetite and their rejection of material possessions. In Themroc, our attention is drawn
to the body and the pleasures it can give us, be it through food or sex. Sexual desire is a
key factor in Themroc’s initial self-liberation. He is spurred on by his incestuous desire
for his sister and his sexual encounter with his boss’ secretary. Having been sacked by
his boss, Themroc returns home and creates a cave like structure within his mother’s
apartment. Themroc knocks the exterior wall out completely so the cave becomes an
open hole overlooking the courtyard below. From here, Themroc throws out all the
furniture and possessions within the room, creating an empty shell. In the cave Themroc
has uninhibited sex with his neighbour and even his sister. When Themroc and his
newly discovered family need feeding he ‘forages’ for policemen who are killed and
subsequently roasted like pigs on an open fire in the cave. Themroc’s search for
pleasure ends in a collective orgasm which involves the wider community, and
Dewaere. An anarchic utopia based in cannibalism, hardly what feminists intended
when discussing silence as resistance, and the body having equal importance to the
intellect.
In her book on 1970s French cinema Alison Smith discusses Themroc as part of her
chapter on the Utopian film (2005: 113-134). According to Smith, the Utopian film
(already discussed in relation to Miou-Miou’s star body), emerged following May ’68
and encapsulated the desire for change which this political moment revealed. Influenced
by Chevalier (1993: 30-42), Smith outlines that the Utopian film tended to focus on the
anarchic actions of small groups or microcosms (Smith 2005: 113-115). Although, as I
have already noted (see Chapter Five), there are serious limitations to Themroc’s
224
utopian project, particularly in relation to gender, the film undoubtedly relates to the
aftermath of May ’68. Thematically, the film engages with a number of topics which
were close to the heart of many May ’68 campaigners, namely the oppressive existence
of the working class and the suppression of the individual. The brutal behaviour of the
police in the film (including the rape of Miou-Miou’s character) also seems to refer to
the May ’68 riots (Smith 2005: 123). Aesthetically, as Smith notes, the film recalls the
alternative documentary footage of May ’68. The film is largely shot using naturalistic
light and many scenes, including the mini-riot between the inhabitants of Themroc’s
building and the police, use handheld cameras (Smith 2005: 123). Finally, the director
Faraldo has commented that he deliberately sought to create this documentary aesthetic
by using 16mm and small technical teams (Penso 1981: 29)
Although Themroc is clearly radical in its manipulation of film form and dialogue, the
film was criticised by some for not being ‘sufficiently’ politicised. Rather than
proposing radical social change, the film proposes small-scale rebellion through
anarchic jubilation (that leads to cannibalism, as it also did in Weekend [Godard, 1967]).
Piccoli explains below that this frustrated some, and suggests that it confused the
popular understanding of how the working class should be represented and ‘liberated’:
People said that Themroc wasn’t a truly political film, because it was too utopian, and that whilst it hinted
at it, it doesn’t reveal any kind of political solution […] It uncovered the failings of the world of the
worker and particularly the fascination held by the bourgeois for the working-class. Worse still was that I
played a character who behaved like an anarchist worker revelling in the selfish trappings of the
individualistic rich. Capricious, he had forgotten a wider and more important battle. He had freed himself
from the working class. (Piccoli 1976: 247-8)
225
Themroc’s lack of politicisation correlates with Dewaere’s own rejection of formalised
politics in favour of personal freedom and celebration that we saw very clearly in
Chapter Three. We recall that during May 1968 Dewaere was uninterested in the
militant politics of his contemporaries and instead took enormous (and indeed selfindulgent) pleasure from the anarchic and festive atmosphere of the time.
Interestingly, in its depiction of the working-class as desiring the ‘selfish trappings of
the individualistic rich’, Themroc differs from contemporaneous films such as Tout va
bien (Godard, 1972) and Coup pour coup (Karmitz, 1972) which, according to Forbes,
express a nostalgia for a mythical working-class from the past and reflect ‘a fervent
desire to invest significance in the working class which was declining numerically and
refusing to behave in an appropriately revolutionary fashion’ (Forbes 1992: 30).136
Thus, consequently, although Themroc is a fantastical interpretation of the working
class, it does not pander to idealised cultural representations of that particular social
group.
One of the key ways in which Themroc engages with its cultural context is through its
anarchic approach to film practice and acting. From the very beginning of the film,
Themroc disrupts dominant codes and conventions of film form. The opening sequence
serves as a key example of Faraldo’s anarchic use of film form. The film begins with a
series of seemingly unrelated still images edited together. The stills are followed by an
animated image of Themroc riding a bicycle with his name written in a speech bubble
above. The camera then returns to a photographic still of a man with a camera, facing
136
It is, however, worth noting that Themroc also expresses a form of nostalgia in its regression to
prehistoric ways of life (cave dwelling, primitive language and behaviour). Arguably, the film displays a
longing for archaic forms of masculinity and an earlier time when gender roles were more clearly laid out.
As I shall suggest in my discussion of gender at the end of this chapter, this regression was perhaps
appealing to those who felt assailed by new constructions of gender, spurred on by the women’s
movement.
226
the audience. However, this time the image is superimposed onto an oncoming metro
train (one of the locations of Themroc’s subsequent rebirth). The final image of this
sequence is of Themroc hanging out of a window shouting his name. This image, we
later learn, is taken from later on in the film, and thus, as with other sections of the film,
disrupts the temporal narrative of the film. The image then cuts discordantly to Themroc
as he makes a cup of coffee, the beginning of his monotonous daily routine. The
soundtrack of this opening sequence is also out of synch and disrupts our expectations
of the function of sound within film. The first noise the spectator hears is an ape like
roar. This is followed by what sounds like a gunshot (this is accompanied by Michel
Piccoli’s credit). As the opening stills appear we hear the clanking of an oncoming
metro train. This sound has no apparent relevance to the stills at this stage. The
disruption of visual and aural linearity in this sequence, combined with the images of
the film apparatus, allow Faraldo to draw attention to, and form a criticism of, dominant
filmmaking practices – and their securing establishing shots.
The disruptive use of sound and image in this opening sequence recalls the work of
Jean-Luc Godard. Although Godard adopted an unconventional approach to editing and
sound from his first feature (A bout de souffle, 1959), Themroc perhaps resonates the
most with Tout va bien, which was released in the same year as Faraldo’s film (1973).
For Forbes ‘through the use of sound, colour, camera movements and montage, [Tout va
bien] forces the viewer to be conscious that what is being watched is a construct, an
artefact’ (Forbes 1992: 26). According to Forbes, this connects Godard’s work with a
wider questioning of the politics of representation that took place post May ’68. She
suggests that Godard’s film contends ‘that both the synchronisation and intellectual
coherence between sound and image are not merely idealistic but also disguise the true
politics of their production’ (Forbes 1992: 29). Arguably, through its manipulation of
227
the codes and conventions of film form, Themroc also functions in this way and situates
itself within contemporaneous debates that surrounded the politics of the film image.
Themroc’s violent and sexualised content also relate the film to this politics of the
image. We recall that, although cinema would not see total liberalisation until 1974, this
process had already begun during the late 1960s (see for example Godard’s Weekend).
From the beginning of the film we understand that Themroc’s anarchy is not limited to
film form but extends to film acting and Piccoli’s star image. Piccoli had originally
approached Faraldo in the hope of collaborating with the director and it was thanks to
the participation of this well-known actor that Faraldo was able to make the film (Penso
1981: 27). Both actor and director welcomed the chance to disrupt Piccoli’s image
which Faraldo describes as follows:
Michel is often cast as the stereotype of a progressive executive, in his forties, with a seductive sports car
and architect-designed house. It was good to denigrate all that (Faraldo quoted in Penso 1981: 29)
Piccoli (1976: 198) explains in his biography that films such as Themroc and
particularly his work with directors such as Ferreri allowed him to challenge this image.
Piccoli suggested that his desire to subvert his image during this period of his career
(during the early 1970s) was spurred on by what he had learnt during May ’68 (Piccoli
1976: 198).137 In the film he moves away from his star type, not just in terms of class,
but also through language and sexual behaviour. Although Piccoli’s characters were,
thus far, often sexually desirous (see for example Les Noces rouges (Chabrol, 1973),
which was released in the same year), Themroc displays a sexual crudity that separates
him from Piccoli’s other screen roles. Themroc is, for example, haunted by images of
It is important to note that, despite Piccoli’s reputation for politicisation, in terms of his personal
experience of May ’68, he considered himself to be an observer rather than a participant (Piccoli 1976:
198).
137
228
women’s legs and buttocks. Moreover, he engages in sexual acts with women he does
not know, for example he performs oral sex on his boss’s secretary without any kind of
prior interaction. Similarly, whereas Piccoli’s characters are often characterised by their
sophisticated use of language (see for example Le Mépris (Godard, 1963) in which
Piccoli plays a writer), in Themroc Piccoli’s character’s language is condensed to roars,
moans and grunts. And, in the context of the film, this lack of verbal language is not
seen as restrictive, but rather liberating.
In its blatant rejection of dominant cinematic codes and conventions (those of Piccoli’s
star body), Faraldo’s film resonates with Cinema Novo, a movement in Brazilian
cinema that emerged in the 1960s and 1970s, which Stam discusses in relation to
Bakhtin’s notion of the carnivalesque in Subversive Pleasures: Bakhtin, Cultural
Criticism, and Film (1989). Themroc shares similarities with the Cinema Novo from
different stages of the movement’s development. Like the Cinema Novo of the 1960s,
through its employment of naturalistic mise-en-scène, Themroc discards the (visual)
‘pleasurable indulgences of the carnival’, and embraced instead ‘an aesthetic of hunger’,
refusing ‘shallow utopianism’ (Stam 1989: 147). However, unlike this form of Cinema
Novo, Themroc retains ‘carnivalesque good humour’, and clearly embraces the
‘pleasurable indulgences of the carnival’ that can be found through corporeal experience
(Stam 1989: 147). Themroc can in fact be most readily associated with the later
underground element of Cinema Novo, which, from the margins of this marginalised
form of cinema, ‘rejected well-made cinema in favour of a “dirty screen” and “garbage
aesthetics”’ (Stam 1989: 150). This ‘dirty screen’ can be seen in the graininess of the
image in Themroc, which could be the result of Faraldo’s use of 16mm and its
subsequent transferral to 35mm. Furthermore, like this element of Cinema Novo, by
juxtaposing Piccoli with young (‘untamed’) actors, and by clashing of images and
229
temporalities, which we see in the opening scene, Faraldo orchestrates ‘orgies of
clashing allusions and citations not in a spirit of reverential homage but in an impulse of
creative disrespect and irreverence’ (Stam 1989: 155). Neither Piccoli, nor Faraldo, nor
the Café de la Gare actors (including Dewaere) show Piccoli’s bourgeois star body any
kind of reverential respect.
In its disruption of dominant discourses and structures, be it through the ridiculing of
the police, the defilement of Piccoli’s star body or the contravention of the codes of
classical narrative cinema, Themroc recalls the Café de la Gare’s own anarchic theatre
practice. In the previous chapter I discussed the ways in which the Café de la Gare
broke away from mainstream theatre, namely in terms of its venue, language, and
performance. Bouteille and the other founders of the Café de la Gare aspired to create a
utopian theatre community that they felt would be achieved through the rejection of
rules and structures. This was reflected in the themes of their work. For example Au
long de la rivière Fango (Sotha, 1975), the only feature film that Dewaere made with
the Café de la Gare performers, is a utopian exploration of communal life. Themroc
thus can be seen, in some ways, as a filmic interpretation of the theatre practices of this
group. The presence of this collective of actors is all pervading. Faraldo had openly
welcomed their influence on his work, and it could be argued, that its presence
motivates the narrative of the film, which does not solely focus on Themroc’s individual
experience, but rather flits between the lives of numerous members of the community.
In this respect it differs from Faraldo’s other 1970s films, which tend to focus on small
groups rather than a whole community (Smith 2005: 114). This difference is most
notable at the end of the film when, as I shall show towards the end of this chapter,
Piccoli’s body becomes dispersed across and through the other bodies of the
community, a dispersal that is instigated by the entrance of Dewaere. In this respect, the
singularity of the star body of Piccoli is actively broken down by the sexual and social
230
permissiveness (to recall my discussion of Miou-Miou) and collectivism of the Café de
la Gare actors.
I shall now argue that, in their anarchic disruptions of the dominant codes and
conventions of film and theatre, and with their focus on the community, both Themroc
and the theatre practice of the Café de la Gare relate to Bakhtin’s notion of the
carnivalesque. The power and pleasure that can be derived from the body and
physicality are key to Bakhtin’s understanding of the Carnival. For Bakhtin carnival
celebrations encourage a form of physical abandon that liberates the body from the
constraints of culture and society, whilst managing to bring the collective together. The
carnivalesque has been used to understand the function of cinematic bodies and
filmmakers138. Harris (2001: 63-97), for example, uses it to unpick the work of
Dewaere’s friend and collaborator, Bertrand Blier. Harris draws on Bakhtin and his text
Rabelais and His World as a way of unpicking the artistic and cultural subversion that
takes place in Blier’s films. We might just as easily apply her reading to Faraldo’s
1970s films. By looking at Blier’s films within the context of Bakhtin and his
understanding of the carnivalesque, Harris aims to challenge dominant interpretations of
Blier’s work. She suggests that:
Bakhtin’s concept of the carnival is a useful place to start in as much as it invites a reading of Blier’s
humour as festive and ludic rather than wilfully aggressive, his characters as stock types rather than
hideous incarnations of urban menace, his language as a celebration of linguistic diversity rather than a
bald expression of offensive vulgarity. (Harris 2001: 4)
She argues that Bakhtin is particularly relevant in a discussion of Blier’s 1970s work
since
138
See Hayward (2004: 52-3) Forbes (2000: 213-226) and Harris (2005: 63-97).
231
it has now become relatively commonplace to refer to the events of 1968 – an acknowledged moment of
social and cultural transition in which privilege, social rank and prohibition were systematically
questioned – using the rhetorical framework of carnivalesque or festival analysis. (Harris 2001: 4).
In keeping with this ‘moment of social and cultural transition’, we can also locate
Dewaere in films such as Les Valseuses, Lily aime-moi (Dugowson, 1975), F. comme
Fairbanks, Coup de tête and Un Mauvais fils, where his star body makes (often
unconscious) challenges to ‘privilege, social rank and prohibition’ via his characters’
socio-economic, gender and sexual identities.
According to Harris, in the 1970s, there was a ‘renewed interest in […] popular
spectacle’ (2001: 5). This focus on the popular mobilised the challenges to ‘privilege,
social rank and prohibition’ that Harris points to above. Via his participation Café de la
Gare Dewaere actively took part in this cultural moment. As I suggested in Chapter
Three, the emergence of the Café de la Gare and other Café théâtre groups was
symptomatic of this tendency to criticise dominant structures and discourses. Similarly,
Themroc can also be seen within the context of this trend. Like Blier’s films, Themroc
could be understood as festive and ludic rather than purely aggressive. For these
reasons, I would therefore like to propose that Themroc can be examined using
Bakhtin’s methodological template. As I discuss the film within this context I shall
weave Dewaere into my argument, in order to investigate the specific ways in which his
star body challenges ‘privilege, social rank and prohibition’.
Before outlining the tenets of the carnivalesque that are most helpful to our discussion
here, it is first important to point out, as Frank Krutnik acknowledges (2003: 14), that
Bakhtin himself felt the theory of the carnivalesque could not be applied in a modern
232
context. However, contrary to this, Krutnik argues that even within contemporary
contexts ‘the grotesque body continues to persist as a potent signifier of the ambivalent
relations between individuals and the social order’ (Krutnik 2003: 14). Addressed
within the framework of Themroc, the concept of the grotesque body will allow us then
to identify and examine the ambivalent relations that exist between Themroc, his
neighbours and the social order (the police, traditional family structures). It will also
allow us to consider in what ways Dewaere’s own body could be considered as
‘grotesque’. What we shall see is that in Themroc Dewaere’s ‘grotesque’ body is a
mobilising force for change and evolution, breaking down as it does the boundaries
between individuals. However, what we shall see later in this thesis, and what I have
already pointed to in my discussion of the ‘one-man show’, is that Dewaere’s grotesque
body in his later film work ultimately, turns against itself in a way that does not break
down the divide between individuals but rather serves to highlight his difference and
alterity.
Krutnik (2003: 1-18) draws on the carnivalesque as a means of understanding comic
performers in Hollywood cinema and provides an outline of Bakhtin’s theory. Krutnik
describes the carnivalesque as possessing the following features. Firstly, he explains
that the carnivalesque is a means of attacking the ‘norms and hierarchies’ of society.
These norms might be those of the party political system, of gender (as Butler sets out),
or of law and order. These norms might also include those of social interaction and
sexuality. Unlike the norms displayed by dominant society, the carnival represents the
experiences of the ‘“lower” social orders’139. Bakhtin argues that the carnival:
139
(Krutnik, 2003: 13)
233
celebrated temporary liberation from the prevailing truth and from established order; it marked the
suspension of all hierarchical rank, privileges, norms, and prohibitions. Carnival was the true feast of
time, the feast of becoming, change and renewal. (Bakhtin quoted in Krutnik 2003: 14)
Thus, according to Bakhtin, the liberation that the carnival permits does not endure, but
is rather a ‘suspension’ of the governing rules and regulations of dominant society.
Similarly, although Dewaere’s acting experience at the Café de la Gare was a
celebratory one that allowed him to shed the shackles of the past and embrace an
alternative social community and lifestyle, this release was only temporary. Bakhtin’s
understanding of the Carnival is that it was an organic process that permitted ‘change
and renewal’, an experience that, once again, Dewaere underwent during his
involvement with the Café de la Gare. In keeping with this sense of natural change and
progress, Bakhtin also sees the carnivalesque body as a fluctuating entity without
pretensions. This could clearly be related to Dewaere’s gendered identity, which so
evidently fluctuates within and between the boundaries of gender and sexuality, as we
shall see later in this chapter.
Bakhtin does not understand the carnivalesque body as an abstract representation but
rather in relation to its material experiences. For Bakhtin the carnival and the bodies that
participate in it, degrade ‘all that is high, spiritual, ideal, abstract; it is a transfer to the
material level, to the sphere of earth and body in their indissoluble quality’ (Bakhtin
quoted in Krutnik 2003: 14). Bakhtin thus proposes that, during the carnival celebration,
the body returns to the material and embraces denigration. This notion of the
denigration of the body recalls Dewaere’s earlier comment that he liked to ‘work like a
dog’ or, if we literally translate his words (j’aime me défoncer): ‘I like to break myself
up/ collapse myself’. This suggests that Dewaere denigrated his body via its destructive
employment in performance. Moreover, we recall that in his statement he suggested that
234
acting came from within himself (‘en soi’), which suggests that his performances were
not ‘high, spiritual or abstract’, but represented a projection of the interior of his
physical being.
Bakhtin terms this employment of the human body as Grotesque Realism, and describes
it as follows:
Through this peculiar combination of crudity and utopianism, grotesque realism unshackles the unruly
body from the discipline of acculturation. Releasing the lower bodily stratum (belly, genitals, anus) from
its subjection to the intellect and the spirit, the carnivalesque parades bodies of exaggerated proportions,
unquenchable sensuality and revolting assertiveness. (Bakhtin quoted in Krutnik 2003: 14)
Within the context of the carnival, the body is thus released from conventions. It is
allowed to mutate and express its physicality freely, without being reduced by the
process of acculturation. As Bakhtin underlines, the carnivalesque body is ‘exaggerated’
and possesses an ‘unquenchable sensuality and revolting assertiveness’. As a result, the
carnivalesque body’s experience of sexuality is liberated from the regimes, set out by
normative heterosexuality, which do not allow for such unrestricted behaviour.
Consequently, the carnivalesque body provides us with an excellent example of how
bodies can transgress boundaries of gender and sexuality and can, in the words of
Butler, ‘provide critical opportunities to expose the limits and regulatory aims of that
domain of [gender] intelligibility’ (Butler 1999: 23-24). Moreover, it also therefore
offers a fruitful framework with which to analyze Dewaere’s gendered body, which, as
we have already seen in the last three chapters, frequently transgresses the boundaries of
gender and, by default, heterosexuality. However, there are limitations to Dewaere’s
correspondence with the carnivalesque since, as we shall see in later chapters, his
characters are no longer ‘revoltingly assertive’ in the projection of their desires.
235
The final point to make in relation to the Carnival is that it encourages an enlivened
sense of community. The carnivalesque ‘not only liberates the otherness of the human
body but also highlights new possibilities for the social body by stressing principles of
cooperation, collectivity and community’ (Krutnik 2003: 14). Within this kind of
society, boundaries between individuals are erased. For Bakhtin ‘[T]he grotesque body
is not separated from the rest of the world. It is not a closed, completed unit; it is
unfinished, outgrows itself, transgresses its own limits’ (Bakhtin quoted in Krutnik
2003: 14). Thus, carnivalesque or grotesque bodies blur into one another and do not
experience conventional boundaries. The community of the carnivalesque is therefore
one that accepts, and encourages, a freely flowing exchange between individuals. This
exchange can be a sexual one and can include fluid exchange. The carnival foregrounds
and embraces physicality and the secretions of the body. As a result of this, and the free
exchange that takes place between individuals, the carnivalesque body’s experience of
sexuality and desire is boundless, a positioning that allows a greater sense of
community and cooperation. As we shall see in the chapters that follow, in Dewaere’s
films after Themroc there is no longer this free-flowing exchange. Instead, Dewaere is
marginalised as an outsider who presents, we recall, the signs of an ‘unintelligible’
gender. Moreover, whilst in Themroc, as we shall see, the body and its gestures are
foregrounded, in Dewaere’s later films this physicality turns aggressively against the
star body, eventually causing its destruction.
The characteristics of the Carnival outlined above can clearly be found in Themroc. Let
us look firstly at how the body is foregrounded within the film. In terms of the actors’
performances, they rely almost entirely on gesture and movement in order to
communicate their message to the audience, and to those around them. Each character
236
expresses themselves through varying degrees of physicality. Themroc’s mother
expresses her anxiety with regards to her son’s behaviour as an array of tics. We also
see it in her repeated deep inhalations of breath that cause her pain. Unlike Themroc,
who shouts and roars at the top of his voice, the sounds that are emitted from the
mother’s mouth are made through pursed lips. As for Dewaere he initially expresses
himself by whistling and via the physical movements of his trade (bricklaying), but as
his interaction with Themroc and the other cave dwellers increases, he vocally expresses
his orgasm through moans, groans and wails.
A key way in which bodies in Themroc reveal themselves as carnivalesque is, in the
case of Themroc and eventually his neighbours and Dewaere, that they are liberated
from, and unregulated by, the norms of heterosexuality. Firstly, Themroc and his
companions are largely unfettered by clothes, thus liberating themselves from what
Gaines refers to as ‘The sexual difference system around which societies are organised’
which is ‘guaranteed on a day-to-day basis by gendered dress, adornment and body
style’ (Gaines 1990: 26). Themroc destabilizes this system. Dewaere’s character is
stripped of his white work coat as he tries to brick up the cave wall, as Themroc and the
other cave dwellers attempt to entice him into their community and reject the structures
of his life (work and heterosexuality). We shall see that by allowing the cave dwellers to
undress him, Dewaere mobilizes his gender displacement. Further examples of the
(dys)function of dress can be found elsewhere in the film. When Themroc’s boss’s
secretary arrives to join their community, he and his sister strip the former’s jacket off
her. This is not done in a way that violates her. Instead the implication from her facial
expression is that he does it in order for her to relax and enjoy their feast.
237
Themroc’s relationship with his sister and his neighbour reveals a further, crucial
example of how the characters in the film reject acculturation and ‘all that is ideal’.
Much to the horror of his mother (who represents the established past) Themroc and his
companions break the law of incest and the rule of monogamy in marriage. In addition,
Themroc’s sexual pleasure is not simply derived from women but also from men, a
point to which I shall return in relation to his liaison with Dewaere. These challenges
made to the laws that govern heterosexuality are encouraged by the freely flowing
impulses that the Carnival permits. These freely flowing impulses extend to the
characters’ appreciation of the body’s secretions and oral pleasures. In Themroc
sexuality is experienced not simply through sight, but through other sensing
mechanisms such as smell, touch and taste. This is seen in Themroc’s appreciation of
his sister’s body. As she lies asleep, Themroc hovers over her naked body concentrating
as much on its odour as its visual appeal. Similarly, Miou-Miou’s character’s first
experience of her sexuality is her thumb sucking, an oral rather than visual pleasure.
Moreover, Dewaere is encouraged by Themroc to put down his tools, (which distance
him from any sense of touch), and instead use his hands to smear cement over the
bricks.
The second key dimension of the carnivalesque with which Themroc interacts is
through its emphasis on the collective. The importance of the collective is central to
Themroc. Themroc’s flat is situated in a four block quadrangle, with a courtyard below.
The architectural features of the building (for example, windows that face out onto and
into the other flats) allow Faraldo to investigate Themroc’s immediate community.
Even before Themroc’s neighbours begin to liberate themselves and follow his lifestyle,
we witness a constant exchange of looks between them. During the course of the film
this exchange is increased, and leads to physical and even sexual interaction. At the
238
beginning of the film, Themroc’s relationship with his neighbours is relatively limited
and seen only in his own fantasies (as is the case with the night worker whom he passes
daily on the stairs). By the end of the film the relationship between Themroc and some
of his neighbours has become so intimate they exchange fluids, as a collective orgasm is
experienced, their moans and groans resonating throughout the local area.
The exchange between the neighbours is not merely sexual, they also engage in other
shared pleasures and forms of celebration. As I have already mentioned, when
Themroc’s newly acquired extended family need food he brings them back a policeman
whom they proceed to cook and eat. The family sit around a fire (with the policeman on
a spit in front of them) and feed each other with their hands, experiencing great pleasure
as they do so. Faraldo shoots the scene in medium shot, allowing the spectator to fully
appreciate the newfound unity of the family, which is expressed in their tactile body
language (prior to this the family’s physical interaction was minimal at meal times when
they sat rigidly at a wooden table). In Themroc, at least during the period of
carnivalesque celebration, the bodies that inhabit the community are not sectioned off.
Instead they rejoice as one, constantly mutating, body.
The feast is a key motif within the carnival celebration. As with sexual exchanges, in
Themroc food and eating focuses our attention on the physical, rather than intellectual
processes of the body:
By focusing on the shared physiological processes of bodily life – copulation, birth, eating, drinking,
defecation – the carnivalesque aesthetic offers a temporary suspension of hierarchy and prohibition.
(Stam 1989: 137)
239
This cannibal feast is particularly
important when considered in the context
of carnivalesque. Stam has drawn
interesting parallels between the
carnivalesque and cannibalism,
suggesting that both destabilise power
FIG 19: Cannibalism in Themroc (Faraldo, 1973
structures:
The “cannibalist” and “carnivalist” metaphors have certain features in common. Both refer to “oral”
rituals of resistance, one literal, the other figurative. Both evoke a kind of dissolving of the boundaries of
the self through the physical or spiritual commingling of self and other. Both reject the ideal of
[…]”canonical” beauty […] Both call for the “cordial mastication” and critical recycling of foreign or
official culture. (Stam 1989: 126)
The feasting on the policeman in Themroc is therefore a complex act which relates
closely both to cannibalism and the carnivalesque. It displays another form of resistance
to ‘official culture’, and also demonstrates a further means of ‘commingling’ or
exchange within and between the community. As Kate Taylor explains in her discussion
of Deleuze, cannibalism and filmic representation:
The act of cannibalism is well outside the boundaries of social regulation and can be constructed as a
resistance to the powers that seek to regulate and control. (Taylor 2006: 161)
In the context of Themroc this resistance is obviously to the police force, which actively
attempts (and fails) to control Themroc. Cannibalism is the pinnacle of this rebellion
against this dominant power. Like the carnivalesque, cannibalism constructs the subject
as fluid (Taylor 2006: 161), in that ‘the [cannibal] body can never attain a state of
240
prescribed wholeness as there are always elements that are external to the completion of
the body, namely the relationship with the victims’ (Taylor 2006: 162).
Although Dewaere’s character does not eat other humans, he is indirectly engaged in
the process of cannibalism. As I have already noted, Dewaere plays a number of
different roles during the course of the film, including that of a policeman. In fact, the
policemen that Piccoli ‘hunts’ and kills, are taken from the group that Dewaere is seen
as part of moments earlier. We can safely make the assumption that Dewaere’s body
was one of those later cannibalized, as we do not see him again in this role. Through the
process of cannibalization the victim’s body is recycled in and through the body of the
cannibal, so that their two bodies become fluid and, at the same time, inseparable
(Taylor 2006: 161-163). As such the body is in a constant state of transition and change,
and is perpetually recycled. As if to stress this idea of recycling Dewaere’s body is
‘recycled’ in several ways during the course of the film. Firstly, the body of Dewaere’s
policeman is dispersed through the bodies of the cannibals (Themroc and the other
members of the community). Dewaere’s body is then recycled again in that, having
already been consumed via the form of the policeman, he is then sexually consumed by
the cave dwellers, whom he, in turn, consumes (as the bricklayer). Lastly, by re-using
the Café de la Gare actors (including Dewaere) in numerous contexts within the film
Faraldo actively recycles their actorly bodies. These various processes of recycling
encourage a liberation of Dewaere’s body on a number of levels. Firstly, by re-using
Dewaere (and the other Café de la Gare actors) Faraldo frees the actorly body from the
constraints of character and the ideological implications of that character. For example,
although Dewaere’s initially embodies a policeman and therefore a patriarchal
institution, via another character (the bricklayer) he quickly becomes embroiled in
Themroc’s sexual and social rebellion – thus destabilizing the signification of his earlier
241
character and suggesting that institutions are permeable and open to corruption and
change. Secondly, the act of recycling the body (on a material and physical level)
through the process of cannibalism and
through the sexual exchange of fluids,
allows an intermingling of gendered bodies
to occur. That is to say, via the act of
collective sexual intercourse the gendered
body (and its secretions) are recycled in and
through their supposed opposites, defying
FIG 20: Dewaere prepares to cross the divide
the binaries that normative heterosexuality
dictates.
We see then that the codes and conventions that cannibalism and the carnivalesque
allow the body to transcend, might apply to our body’s secretions, its movements, its
sexual organs and its sexual preferences. I shall now examine to what extent this
analysis applies to Dewaere’s memorable appearance in the film, and will pay particular
attention to the ways in which Dewaere displays a carnivalesque body, freed from
gender.
As I mentioned in the introduction of this chapter, although Dewaere plays a number of
minor roles in Themroc (such as the policeman), his performance takes on central
importance at the end of the film when he plays the role of a bricklayer employed to
brick Themroc and the other cave dwellers in. Dewaere dominates half of the frame and
is encircled by the rim of the front of Themroc’s cave. This positioning immediately
gives Dewaere prominence and he becomes the focus of Themroc and his lovers’ gaze.
Dewaere’s character tries to carry out his job but he is constantly distracted by
242
Themroc’s behaviour. Unlike the other bricklayer who works with efficiency on the
neighbour’s ‘cave’, Dewaere’s movements are elegant and he is quickly involved in the
sensual interaction that takes place between Themroc, his sister and his other lover (his
boss’s secretary). Themroc sticks his fingers in the wet cement, takes hold of his tools
and generally sabotages Dewaere’s attempts to do his job. Themroc’s advances towards
Dewaere’s character become increasingly sexualised. He begins by commandeering
Dewaere’s trowel and kissing it. He then proceeds to stroke Dewaere, and remove his
jacket. Dewaere’s naked body is revealed underneath the jacket, and, as a result of the
framing of the shot (the lower part of Dewaere’s body is obscured by the ‘cave’ rim),
Dewaere’s body appears entirely naked. Encouraged by Themroc, Dewaere puts down
his tools and begins to work using his hands, allowing the cement to smear over him. In
the end Themroc and the women successfully entice Dewaere over the divide and, being
spurred on by his new friends, he kicks down the wall he has constructed.
The fascination in Dewaere’s body that Themroc and the women display is not
something that would normally be associated with a strictly bound male body. He is the
subject of a series of gazes, of mixed gender. He is not, however, positioned as a
passive object within the frame of the cave. Instead, he actively exchanges the gaze of
the cave dwellers. Consequently, although Dewaere appears initially as a spectacle
(watched both by the cave dwellers and the onlookers below), he eventually becomes a
dynamic figure within the exchange. According to Laura Mulvey (1975) within
dominant culture the gaze functions to fix, control and define the body (particularly the
female body). As such, the mono-directional gaze can be understood as one of the
enactments that ‘constitute the illusion of an abiding gendered self’. (Butler 1988: 519).
In contrast, Dewaere is both the holder and the object of the gaze, and stimulates a
mise-en-abîme of gazes. As a result, Dewaere undermines the ‘logical’ and ‘coherent’
243
formation of the gendered self that Butler describes. Furthermore, as a desiring and a
desired subject, Dewaere similarly troubles the boundaries and codes of heterosexuality,
As Dewaere is welcomed into the group, the camera then cuts to the action that is taking
place in the neighbouring spaces. We see the despondent faces of the family living in
the neighbouring cave as they are slowly bricked in, and we also see one frustrated
neighbour frantically cleaning his car. Slowly, the inhabitants of the quadrangle begin to
hear the increasing moans of pleasure that are heard from Themroc’s flat. This is
followed by a series of headshots of Themroc, Dewaere, the secretary and the sister,
who are all in sexual raptures. These are interspersed with shots of the apparently
simultaneous imprisonment of Miou-Miou’s parents and the sexual liberation of the
cohabitants of the quadrangle (including that of Miou-Miou and her brother who escape
their parents’ flat via a ladder).
The growing collective orgasm that is instigated by the arrival of Dewaere, in true
carnivalesque fashion, decentralises the sexual experience. Instead of focusing on one
sexual encounter between a man and a woman Faraldo chooses to end his film with the
experience shared not just by Themroc, Dewaere and the two women, but by those in
the vicinity who are drawn into the experience. This decentralisation is achieved in
several others ways. The orgy that takes place in Themroc’s apartment is filmed in such
a way that decentralises their bodies140. What it is meant by this is that whilst the bodies
themselves appear fragmented (but not fetishised), the focal point of the sexual
interaction is not the phallus. According to Mulvey (1975), the fascination of the gaze
within cinema is often motivated by the absence or presence of the phallus. In this scene
it is completely foreclosed. Anxiety around the phallus absolutely does not drive the
140
The word orgy is used here both to describe the sexual act that takes place and to convey the
indulgence and abundance of that act, which is apparent in the excessive vocalization of the protagonists’
ecstasy.
244
pleasure of looking that takes place here. Instead, we as spectators are shown
recognisable close-ups of their heads, and these are interspersed with shots of their
bodies that are not clearly defined. We are unsure whose body is whose, who is doing
what to whom, and indeed, to a certain extent, what gender each body manifests –
sexual organs are rendered irrelevant. Moreover, if the body is in anyway fetishised by
the series of shots that Faraldo splices to together, it is done in a way that refuses to
assign the body concrete gender. Consequently, we see that within this sequence both
gender and sexuality are decentralised. The orgy thus shares certain similarities with the
act of cannibalism, in that both dissolve the boundaries of identity, through the process
of indulgent consumption (of sex and human flesh respectively).
The body is further detached from dominant forms of cultural or political codification
by the editing style. Instead of lingering on the bodies of Themroc and his companions,
Faraldo frantically disrupts any continuity by intersecting the images of their bodies
with shots documenting the activities of Themroc’s neighbours and, increasingly as the
scene nears its climax, Faraldo includes shots of the continuing plight of those who
have not been drawn into Themroc’s transient mini-utopia. These images include shots
of hands desperately trying to claw their way through cement bars and shots of people
continuing to traipse to work on the relentless cycle of métro-boulot-dodo. The
pessimism of these inserts reminds the spectator that Themroc’s project offers neither a
permanent nor global solution. This is of course a characteristic of the carnivalesque.
We recall that the carnival is only ever a temporary release from dominant structures
and powers. Moreover, we recall from my earlier discussion of Miou-Miou’s
performance in the film that the representation of female sexual emancipation is not a
smooth or un-abusive pathway. This underlines the fact that divisions and exclusions
245
still exist in Themroc, contradicting its otherwise carnivalesque principles of
‘cooperation, collectivity and community’ (Krutnik 2003: 14).
For the actors of the Café de la Gare, the film in some ways prefigures the problems
that their own utopian project would encounter in the years that followed Themroc.
Shortly after its release, the group embarked upon increasingly individualised career
trajectories. Miou-Miou began to work with popular comedy directors in minor roles,
Coluche left the group to pursue his own stand-up career. And Dewaere also used the
success of the Café de la Gare to launch the new adult phase of his film career.
Themroc’s pessimistic end embodies the perceived failure of the events of May 1968.
Directly following the climax of the group’s orgy, we see that the neighbours have been
successfully bricked in. This shot is inter-cut with shots of alienating tower blocks and
commuters streaming through the metro. The implication here is that (as we expect
from the carnivalesque) that Themroc’s revolution is only temporary and isolated, and
that social and sexual imprisonment continues beyond the freedom of his selfconstructed cave. Similarly, after the great, violent climax of 1968, many of the
problems that existed prior to this ‘revolution’, persisted into the early 1970s.
Furthermore, the utopian aspirations of May 1968 became even more elusive by the
time the petrol crisis kicked-in in 1973 – causing mass unemployment amongst young
people (who were the individuals that the events had in part hoped to help). Many of
Dewaere’s films in the mid to late 1970s, which I shall be looking at in the following
chapters, would communicate the pessimism that is witnessed in the final frames of
Themroc.
This chapter has aimed to demonstrate how Themroc situates both itself, and Dewaere,
clearly within the context of post-68 France. By looking at Bakhtin’s carnivalesque, I
246
have attempted to show how the film foregrounds the pleasures that can be obtained by
exploring the physicality of the body. In Themroc we have seen that these physical
pleasures are found in sex and food. We have also seen that, in the celebratory
atmosphere of the carnival, barriers between individuals are dissolved. This has proved
particularly useful when analysing Dewaere’s pivotal performance in the film which
catalyses a decentralised experience of sexuality and gender. In the next chapter I shall
look at F. comme Fairbanks, Dewaere’s first film as sole male star. I shall explore how
this film documents the materialisation of the pessimistic prophecies witnessed at the
end of Themroc. I shall look at how, whilst in Themroc the grotesque body is rejoiced
and celebrated, the otherness of Dewaere’s body in F. comme Fairbanks becomes a
destructive force, both on and off screen.
247
Chapter Seven
The Aetiology of Hysteria:
F. comme Fairbanks (Dugowson,
1976)
248
Chapter Seven
The Aetiology of Hysteria: F.comme Fairbanks (Dugowson, 1976)
Aetiology refers to the investigation of the causes and origins of a particular disease or
condition. Using, as its analytical framework, Elisabeth Bronfen’s discussion of hysteria
in The Knotted Subject (1998), this chapter will look at the aetiology of Dewaere’s
hysteric star body, concentrating on the factors that contribute to its emergence in F.
comme Fairbanks. As such this chapter will only put in place one small aspect of the
hysteric body – its origins. By establishing this preliminary groundwork for our
understanding of Dewaere’s hysteric star body, this chapter will provide a platform for
the next chapter, which looks at Dewaere’s embodiment of hysteria in much greater
detail, in the context of Série noire (Corneau, 1979). Given the specificity of these aims,
and since the film has already been discussed in Chapters Three and Five, this chapter
will be shorter than the others in Part Two. F. comme Fairbanks is vitally important to
my thesis research question in that it marks a turning point in Dewaere’s career towards
individualised performances that foregrounded the trauma of the masculine body.
As we have already learned, following the box office triumph of Les Valseuses,
Dewaere’s success as an actor in his own right was not immediate. In the early 1970s
Dewaere was not cast as a leading man, and instead made a number of films, which
could be termed as ‘collective films’. These films document the experiences of small
groups of people who attempt to create alternative or breakaway social formations. A
key example of this type of film is Lily aime-moi (Dugowson, 1974). Jean-Michel Folon
plays François, a journalist commissioned by his newspaper to write an article about the
day-to-day life of a factory worker called Claude (played by Rufus). On arriving at
249
Claude’s flat François discovers the latter in a forlorn state, as his wife, Lily, has just
left him. François takes it upon himself to distract Claude from his misery, and the pair
go to watch Jonhy Cask (Dewaere), fight (and lose) a boxing match. From that point on
Jonhy, François and Claude form an unlikely friendship. In an attempt to come to terms
with their individual problems and failures, the trio go to the countryside to escape.
Within this mini-collective the three men find strength from each other, and attempt to
decode what has gone wrong with Lily and Claude’s marriage. Amongst other reasons,
they cite Lily’s increased interest in feminism as having a negative impact on their
marriage. In the film, women are represented as unfathomable mysteries for the men.
Dewaere’s character appears to be particularly out of touch with the emancipated
woman and his repertoire of seduction is limited to the one-liner ‘vous êtes très jolie’
(‘you’re pretty’). When Jonhy and Claude encounter two women in a café (one of
whom is played by Miou-Miou), Jonhy attempts to ‘chat-up’ the two women. However,
he is quickly slapped down by Miou-Miou’s quick-witted rebuff. Embarrassed, Jonhy
sheepishly retreats.
Hiding themselves away in a country hotel, the men are largely isolated from women
(despite the title and the narrative’s motivation, which is to reunite Lily with Claude). It
becomes clear that, as their friendship grows within the confines of their shared hotel
room, their newly formed ‘male family’141 acts as a protective shield from the political
strains of 1970s heterosexual relationships (to say nothing of feminism). Instructively,
however, this male bonding on Dewaere’s part and with this particular director is shortlived since only a year later a shift occurs. In F. comme Fairbanks this protective ‘male
family’ has completely disappeared, and the individual is left unguarded. As such
We recall that the term ‘male family’ is used by Vincendeau to describe the closely knit groups of men
that feature in Melville’s films, and which function to protect their masculine identity (Vincendeau, 2003:
113).. The generic context of Lily aime-moi is different of course to that of Melville’s male families.
However, as in Melville’s films, in Lily-aime moi a sense of masculine unity is created within the trio, via
the consolidating gestures that they exchange (Vincendeau, 2003: 113).
141
250
Dewaere’s interaction with the ‘male family’ is distinct to that of Ventura’s, who we
recall, also distances himself from the ‘male family’ but does so in a way which
reinforces his masculine identity.
Although Dewaere is able to assert a
strong presence via his exuberant
performance in Lily aime-moi, this
type of ‘collective film’ did not
FIG 21: The Male Family in Lily-aime moi (Dugowson,
1975)
allow Dewaere to play the leading
man. F. comme Fairbanks provided
Dewaere with this opportunity (Maurin 1993: 97). Dugowson wrote the film
specifically for the actor (Maurin 1993: 95). Dugowson had been struck by Dewaere’s
resemblance to Douglas Fairbanks whilst working on Lily aime-moi, and decided that
he would like to make a film based around that character. Initially, Dugowson had
considered making a swashbuckling film, the genre most commonly associated with
Fairbanks. Instead, Dugowson soon decided to bring the character of Fairbanks into a
modern context via the delusional aspirations of a young French man, André Fragman.
However, although the film was initially inspired by the perceived similarities between
Dewaere and Fairbanks, ultimately it is André’s (Dewaere’s) inability to match up to
the heroic feats of the silent movie star that provides the momentum behind the
narrative and André’s downfall. As such the film is about both the character’s (André’s)
and the actor’s (Dewaere’s) failure to coincide with the ideal image.
André returns from an unsuccessful period in military service to find that he has no
employment opportunities. Unlike his hero, Douglas Fairbanks, he is unable to triumph
in the face of this adversity, nor is he able to form a functional relationship with his
251
girlfriend, Marie, played by Miou-Miou. Although the film gave Dewaere a clear
opportunity to prove himself as a leading man, F. comme Fairbanks also revealed a side
of Dewaere’s star persona (already witnessed episodically in Les Valseuses and La
Meilleure façon de marcher) that could accurately convey profound despair, lost hope
and resultant violence. Dewaere himself feared that the film would cast him in this light,
and that he would subsequently only be offered ‘paumé or ‘loser’ roles (Maurin 1993:
97). Although there are one or two exceptions (see La Clé sur la porte and Le Juge
Fayard dit “le shériff”), Dewaere’s hesitation proved valid: the overwhelming majority
of his subsequent roles following F. comme Fairbanks drew on the despair, isolation
and sporadic violence of André Fragman. Moreover, from this point on, most of
Dewaere’s films tackle the struggle and despair of the individual, rather than the
utopianism of the collective (as seen in Themroc, Les Valseuses and Lily-aime moi).
This, as I have noted elsewhere in this thesis, was a common trend within French
cinema as the decade progressed. Off-screen, the film also marks the end of Miou-Miou
and Dewaere’s relationship. And, if we are to believe the testimonies of friends and
colleagues, the beginning of the end of Dewaere’s psychological stability (Maurin 1993:
111 and 156).
Thus, despite its modest commercial and critical success, F. comme Fairbanks is crucial
in the development of Dewaere’s star persona, and is a pivotal moment in his
filmography.142 It is in this film that we witness within Dewaere’s characterisations, the
origins of what we shall term the hysteric body (already mentioned in the introduction)
– a body that will impact upon our ways of reading Dewaere’s star body itself,
particularly in relation to gender identity. So as to reveal the hysteric body in F.comme
Fairbanks, I shall focus on the delusional relationship André has with Douglas
142
Retrospectively the importance of these films has been recognised with the re-release of F.comme
Fairbanks and Lily aime-moi as a special edition DVD box set entitled D comme Dewaere in 2005.
252
Fairbanks’ image. In doing so, I shall examine the similarities and differences between
André/ Dewaere, which will lead me to look at how they fall short of Fairbanks’ mythic
masculinity. Lastly, I shall consider how André’s fate in the film in some way
prefigures the fate of many (unemployed) young men in late 1970s France.
From the very start of F.comme Fairbanks the viewer is made aware of the importance
of the past in the configuration of André’s identity. For André, Fairbanks and his films
represent a ‘protective fiction’ behind which he attempts to hide his feelings of loss,
vulnerability and mutability. In order to understand how this occurs, it is first important
to consider Fairbanks in his original socio-political and national contexts. During the
1920s, Fairbanks bolstered the spirit and courage of his spectators, as they attempted to
cope with the depression and the threat of war in Europe. Alistair Cooke explains the
appeal of Fairbanks during this difficult period in America’s history as follows:
At a difficult time in American history, when the United States was keeping a precarious neutrality in the
European war, Douglas Fairbanks appeared to know all the answers. […] The movie fan’s pleasure in
Fairbanks might have been expressed in the simple sentence of a later French critic: “Douglas Fairbanks
is a tonic. He laughs and you feel relieved. […]Here […] was […] a public hero close enough, in a
manner and get-up, to contemporary America to leave his admirers with the feeling that they were
manfully facing the times rather than escaping from them”. (Alistair Cooke quoted in Dyer 1991: 58)
The films around the time of the Great War placed Fairbanks in contemporaneous
settings. According to David Robinson spectators watching Fairbanks’ films at the time
they were released were attracted by the ‘dual virtues of action and normality’ of
Fairbanks’ characters (Robinson 1973: 99). Moreover, the star projected a form of
optimism that was hugely inspiring for a country fearful of war. Robinson describes the
impact of Fairbanks’ films as follows:
253
The thrill to see this ordinary young man, wearing an ordinary smart city suit, in ordinary everyday
surroundings, turn into a superman, solving every problem through explosions of physical action.
(Robinson 1973: 99)
From 1920 onwards, the settings and narratives of Fairbanks’ films retreated into the
past. After this point, all his films (except for one, unsuccessful sound film) were
costume spectacles or swashbucklers. This was in keeping with current tastes, but was
also, as Robinson has argued, indicative of a shift in the Zeitgeist of 1920s America.
1920 marked:
[t]he onset of an age in which disillusionment and cynicism – alien notions to Fairbanks – were in vogue,
where the old values were crumbling, Fairbanks deliberately turned from reflecting and celebrating his
times to offering an antidote for them; turned from films about involvement to escape. (Robinson 1973:
100)
These films allowed Fairbanks to exhibit his agility and stunts to their greatest effect,
since, given the generic conventions of these sorts of films, he was called to engage in
swordfights, ride horses and scale enormous, expressive sets. Performing alongside
these epic sets, Fairbanks’ star stature is only greatened. In these films he plays iconic
heroes such as Zorro, Robin Hood, d’Artagnan and Don Quixote. By aligning himself
with these characters, Fairbanks taps into these myths and their symbolic value,
particularly in relation to masculinity. Although Fairbanks was not an obviously
attractive man, his muscular physique was considerable. In The Thief of Bagdhad
(Walsh 1924) Fairbanks’ virile masculinity is made clear via his naked torso and tight
fitted trousers. The narratives of Fairbanks’ films also conspire to validate his
masculinity (Robinson 1973: 98). In The Thief of Bagdhad for example, so as to
successfully obtain the hand of the princess with whom he has fallen in love, Ahmed the
254
thief (Fairbanks) must successfully complete a challenging quest for her hand. The
series of gruelling battles and challenges, which includes walking through a flame filled
cave and fighting a giant spider, augment the myth of Fairbanks’ masculinity.
For André, Fairbanks offers him a vision of an autonomous and unquestioned
masculinity. André principally identifies with the protagonists from The Mark of Zorro
(Niblo, 1920) and The Thief of Bagdhad. In the initial sequence of F. comme Fairbanks,
Dugowson edits together a series of clips from Fairbanks’ films, which we subsequently
learn are the films André watched as a child. We see Fairbanks performing
extraordinary stunts: jumping off a horse whilst clinging to a vertical rope in The Mask
of Zorro, swinging by the sail of a tall ship onto a parallel boat in The Black Pirate
(Parker, 1926), and finally
commanding a flying carpet to launch
in the sky in The Thief of Bagdhad. It
is thus with this form of masculinity
that André identifies. André attempts
to emulate the balance of grace and
FIG 22: Dewaere as André/ Fairbanks
force achieved by Fairbanks in his
stunts. When André arrives at Marie’s house to take her for a weekend in the country,
he decides to scale the wall of her house and greet her at her balcony. However, by the
time he reaches her window she has already exited the house and awaits him below,
whilst he flails around, unable to swing his leg over the balcony and into her room. In
contrast with Fairbanks’ balletic grace, this maladroit manoeuvre underlines the
separation between André and his aspirations.
255
The importance of Fairbanks and the significant role of nostalgia attached to his star
function (as described earlier) are set up during the opening sequence when we see a
series of images taken from some of Fairbanks’ most successful silent films. Eight yearold André watches the films in his father’s flat, via a projector. From the outset it is
made clear that this early experience of Fairbanks still informs André’s identity. As we
are brought into the present, the importance of the past for André is reinforced when he
returns to his father’s home after leaving the army. His bedroom appears to remain
untouched for the two years that have elapsed since he left to undertake his military
service. Although the room contains references to contemporary culture (such as a
poster for Leonard Cohen’s album The Best of Leonard Cohen [1975]), the item that
attracts, and retains, André’s attention is the Zorro style hat that he takes form the
wardrobe and places on his head. The hat reappears later in the film at moments when
André seeks reassurance or a way out of crisis, for example at the end when he
desperately tries to convince Miou-Miou to elope with him. Hats have long been coded
as potent signifiers of masculinity (Bruzzi 1997: 76). However, in André’s case, since
the ostentatiously wide-brimmed hat is entirely incongruous with the other signs of
fragility, insecurity and impotence that André displays, in this context this hat is a
signifier of his desperately unsuccessful attempt to attain that masculinity. The
iconography of Fairbanks’ films remains a key reference point for André throughout the
film. Later in this chapter, I shall look at the ways in which the identities of Fairbanks,
André and Dewaere intersect with one another, focusing on the way this intersection
reveals the instability of Dewaere’s gendered body.
Firstly, however, let us unravel André’s fixation with the past by returning to Bronfen’s
discussion of hysteria, which I initially introduced in Chapter Two. In this chapter I will
not focus on the symptoms of the hysteric, as I shall draw these out in relation to
256
Dewaere in the following chapter. Here I shall instead concentrate on the aetiology of
Dewaere’s hysteria, as it manifests itself in F.comme Fairbanks. In her discussion of
hysteria as an expression of profound loss, Bronfen suggests that as a cultural
construction, hysteria cannot be associated with one, singular gender identity. In her
study, Bronfen problematizes the dominant understanding of hysteria as a ‘feminine’
condition by moving the emphasis that is placed on the phallus in discussions of loss,
onto the navel. Bronfen argues that the navel is a signifier of loss that we all share
regardless of biological gender. For Bronfen, the navel is a signifier that ‘points to the
vulnerability inhabiting the individual, namely, that the knotting occurs over a wound,
both shielding and constructing a site within which are the remains of the traumatic
impact’ (Bronfen 1998: 10). The navel represents a protective shield that covers an
initial site of trauma that we all experience – the moment we are cut from our mother’s
body.
Not only does the navel mark our separation from the body of our mother, it also
articulates the vulnerability and mortality of every individual (Bronfen 1998: 15). This
evaluation of the navel allows Bronfen to rethink gendered identities in relation to
hysteria. Unlike Freud (who ignores what Bronfen believes to be the obvious links
between the trauma of his hysteric patients and death), Bronfen argues that fear of death
and fallibility is intrinsic to the hysteric’s condition (Bronfen 1998: 16). Thus, the navel
expresses the core features of hysteria, namely the fear of loss, fallibility and
vulnerability.
Bronfen claims that ‘[b]y returning to the masculine subject those aspects of human
existence that culture has projected onto femininity – lack drives, deprivation, fallibility,
implenitude – we no longer focus our critical attention on gender distinction’ (Bronfen
257
1998: 17). This return of ‘lack drives, deprivation, fallibility, implenitude’ to the
masculine subject is a useful concept which will allow me to express more freely the
way in which these characteristics are manifested through André’s body, without being
overly constrained by gender distinction.
The hysteric constantly tries to escape these inherent feelings of loss, death and
fallibility, by striving to find a sense of plenitude and satisfaction. In this context, the
FIG 23: André and the primordial object of satisfaction
navel ‘harkens back to the primordial object of satisfaction, that original object in
relation to which every subsequent attempt at satisfaction must be deemed a refinding of
the object: the mother’ (Boothby quoted in Bronfen 1998: 20). In F.comme Fairbanks
André’s mother is absent, and there is little reference made to her during the course of
the film. As a result of André’s mother’s absence, and in the absence of any major
reference to her, the sense of separation from the primordial object of satisfaction is felt
all the more keenly. There are no family photographs in the flat André and his father
share, only posters of Fairbanks and his wife Mary Pickford. Thus, in the case of André,
the identities of these stars replace the presence of his mother in his childhood
memories, and act as substitute objects of primordial satisfaction. In this respect
André’s relationship with the star bodies of Pickford and Fairbanks reveals a double
misrecognition. In the first instance, as I have suggested, André arguably identifies with
Pickford and Fairbanks as a means by which to fill the empty space left by his absent
(m)other in the past. This over-identification, however, can only result in disunion. The
258
reason for this is that when looking at the screen we are constantly aware (despite the
illusion that the cinema creates) of our separation from the screen and therefore the
bodies on the screen. Thus, just as the child is aware of its separation from the mother
when it perceives its difference from her during Lacan’s mirror phase, so too is the
spectator aware of her/his separation from the stars on-screen (Hayward 2000: 2).
Consequently, rather than bringing him unity with the past and his (m)other, André’s
attempt to cover over this absence via these star bodies constantly brings him back to
emptiness and estrangement. The second instance of misrecognition occurs as a result of
André’s specific investment in Fairbanks’ star persona. If we compare the screen once
again to the function of Lacan’s mirror, then for André this idealised mirror image of
himself (Fairbanks) is a ‘kind of mirage, a narcissistic self-idealisation, a misrecognition
because the imagined ‘real’ is always, in fact, unattainable’ (Phillips 1996: 144).
Therefore André’s identification with this star can only reveal his own inadequacies and
shortcomings (absences). This investment in Fairbanks is of course seen in the opening
sequence of the film where the young André watches the Hollywood star, entranced.
Moreover, given that his nickname is ‘Fairbanks’ and his father refers Marie as Mary
Pickford, and that he constantly makes reference to the star via his costume and his
performance, André’s identity is constructed directly in relation to the silent screen star.
André’s sense of stability and
continuity is divined from his
memories of, and from his
embodiment of, Fairbanks. Fairbanks
thus comes to represent the
FIG 24: Dewaere and Miou-Miou in F. comme
Fairbanks (Dugowson, 1976)
‘primordial object of satisfaction’
that André constantly attempts to ‘refind’ in order to achieve fulfilment.
259
As André’s mental state deteriorates he draws increasingly on the figure of Fairbanks as
a form of reassurance. At the end of the film, as André reaches breaking point, he
arrives dressed as Fairbanks at the theatre where Marie is performing Alice in
Wonderland. When Marie refuses to leave with him to go and live in Argentina143,
André barges onto the stage, mid-performance, and tries to remove her by force. Marie
manages to escape to her dressing room but André pursues her and throws himself
against the door repeatedly, fighting off the attempts to restrain him. Before long, an
ambulance arrives and, as they take him away – semi-conscious – on a stretcher, André
disappears into his last fantasy of the film. He imagines himself and Marie riding on a
magic carpet out of Paris, just as Fairbanks does in the penultimate sequence of The
Thief of Bagdhad. Unfulfilled and deprived in the present, André retreats to past figures
to create for himself a fictional and unachievable future. Thus, right until the end of the
film, the figure of Douglas Fairbanks (‘the primordial object of satisfaction’) functions
as a protective shield, like the navel. By focusing on Fairbanks either as a past symbol
of plenitude or an impossible future fantasy, André attempts to avoid the trauma of his
present reality.
Bronfen has observed that Freud’s analyses of hysteric patients tended to locate the
origins of the disorder in unfulfilled ‘sexual impressions and desires of love’ (Bronfen
1998: 34). In contrast, Bronfen argues that what is remarkable about Freud’s hysterics is
that they all repeatedly return to ‘painful scenes of lack, deprivation, fallibility, and
vulnerability, to impressions connected with the death of loved ones, misfortunes, and
losses’ (Bronfen 1998: 34). In this way Bronfen demonstrates that the hysteric condition
can originate in several forms of loss. In the case of André, fallibility originates not only
from his unsuccessful relationship with Marie, but also from his lack of employment
When André returns from the army he initially pursues the false promise made by Michel Piccoli’s
character of a job in Argentina.
143
260
and his nostalgia for the simplicity of the lost past (we recall from the previous page
that his identification with old film stars produces a double misrecognition and therefore
fallibility). Below Bronfen explains the complexity of the condition as she sees it:
the hysteric enacts a ciphered message.[…] [t]he message at stake addresses the lack of plenitude and
completion as a structural phenomenon, be this the vulnerability of the symbolic (the fallibility of paternal
law and social bonds), of identity (the insecurity of gender, ethnic, and class designations), or of the body
(its mutability). (Bronfen 1998: 34)
There are several key points that need to be drawn out of this quotation. Firstly, the
symptoms the hysteric experiences emanate from feelings of lack and vulnerability,
which emerge in relation to three spaces (identity, the symbolic and the body). In the
case of André these feelings of vulnerability materialise when he is unable to find a job.
André’s predicament of course contrasts with Marie, who is not only employed, but is
also financially and socially independent from her parents. Positioned in relation to her,
and to his father, who, despite his age is prospering, André begins to feel increasingly
insecure of his gender identity. Since his financial and social position does not allow
him to fulfil the criteria that dominant society maps out for men, André also refuses to
form a cohabiting relationship with Marie. When she suggests that they move in
together he dismisses it as an impossibility, given that he has no financial independence.
He thus self-imposes the punishment that heteronormative society insists must be
inflicted on those who do not adhere to gender norms (Chinn 1997: 299). In addition,
society itself also excludes and punishes André for his failure to conform to those
expectations that society has instilled within him. At the end of the film, when André’s
insecurity and sense of fallibility lead him to become increasingly violent towards
Marie, he is removed by ambulance workers and taken, we presume, to a psychiatric
hospital.
261
Returning to Bronfen’s quotation above, which explains the aetiology of hysteria, we
could interpret the hysteric’s ‘lack of plenitude and completion’ in several ways. In the
context of F. comme Fairbanks, this lack could refer to the ‘uncompleted star body’.
The ‘uncompleted star body’, is a body that does not perform in the ways that
heteronormative society dictates. As I have argued elsewhere in relation to Isabelle
Huppert144, boundaries or frames often contain the star body. These boundaries or
frames give the star body a sense of ‘completeness’ that makes it comprehensible to
dominant society. These boundaries might take the form of costume, make-up, lighting,
camera work or even the boundary of the cinematic frame itself. In relation to the
gendered star body, Bronfen’s explanation of the hysteric corresponds with Chinn’s
(1997: 299) suggestion that those bodies that do not perform their gendered identities in
a ‘satisfactory’ way are condemned to inadequacy and incompletion, because they
constantly transgress the frames set up by dominant society for the gendered body. .
Thus, ‘lack of completion’ in F. comme Fairbanks occurs on two levels in relation to
the gendered star body. Firstly, it could be linked to André’s failure to live up to the
ideals of the star body of Douglas Fairbanks or, in the case of Dewaere, to the ideals of
masculinity in French society. Secondly, the ‘lack of plenitude and completion’ could
refer to the lack of critical and commercial success that the film experienced – thus
undermining Dewaere’s attempt to use the film as a launch pad for his career as a
leading man. The ‘lack of plenitude and completion’ referred to by Bronfen, could also
refer to the lack of narrative completion within F. comme Fairbanks. As is frequently
the case for the protagonists in Dewaere’s films, André is denied the traditional closure
See Bridget Birchall (2005), ‘From nude to metteuse-en-scène: Isabelle Huppert, image and desire in
La Dentellière (Goretta, 1977) and La Pianiste (Haneke, 2001), Studies in French Cinema, 5.1, pp.5-15
144
262
offered by the Oedipal trajectory, and finds himself unable to stabilise his relationship
with Marie. By way of contrast, the father, successfully remarries.
Unlike Fairbanks’s films, which blocked out the trauma of the economic depression,
Dewaere’s films serve as constant reminders of the nation’s economic and social
hardships brought about by the petrol crisis of 1973. All his films, with the exception of
Paco l’infaillible (Haudepin,1982) and La Chambre de l’évêque (Risi, 1976), are set in
a contemporary context, and several make specific reference to that crisis (see Série
noire, Un Mauvais fils, Coup de tête and Beau père). They do not, therefore, offer any
of the escapist outlets that Fairbanks’ films provide. Not only that, but, as we shall see
in the following chapters, through his violent, then withdrawn performances, Dewaere
epitomises the acute despair felt by young men in late 1970s France. As a result,
whereas Fairbanks offered the spectator a mode of escape, Dewaere only trapped
spectator in the misery of the present.
In conclusion, in F. comme Fairbanks, the seeds of the hysteric body are sown. The film
exposes Dewaere’s capacity to project melancholy and despair, a trait which would go
on to be exploited in the three films that I will discuss in the following two chapters.
The fixation with the star body of Fairbanks only serves to further underline the
fallibility of Dewaere’s own star body. In F. comme Fairbanks Dewaere’s star body
communicates an acute sense of loss, which intersects with the experience of the
character, the nation and Dewaere’s off screen life. Having identified the origins of
Dewaere’s hysteric body in F. comme Fairbanks, in the following chapter I shall
examine how this hysteric body expresses its acute sense of loss, and how it develops
against the context of the losses of the nation and Dewaere himself.
263
Chapter Eight
The Dance of Lack:
Topographies of Hysteria and
Masculinity in
Série noire (Corneau, 1979)
264
Chapter Eight
The Dance of Lack: Topographies of Hysteria and Masculinity in Série noire
(Corneau, 1979)
This chapter looks at how space, performance and sound act as constructing forces in
the configuration of Dewaere’s masculinity in Série noire (Corneau, 1979). The film
represents a definitive break away from Dewaere’s collective films of the early to mid1970s. The isolation evoked by Dewaere’s star body in F. comme Fairbanks becomes
even more acute in Série noire. In this later film, Dewaere is no longer flanked by his
Café de la Gare contemporaries, and the film rests on his performance of isolation and
delusion. The film not only marks the pinnacle of Dewaere’s acting ability, but it also
testifies to a self-destructive element inherent to his star persona (Maurin (1993:172 and
203). Depardieu (1988: 55) has described Série noire as a ‘testimonial film ’, and we
can see this in relation to Dewaere in that it epitomises the self-destructive, violent and
hysterical elements of Dewaere’s star body. Linking the film to Dewaere’s off-screen
behaviour, Depardieu makes particular reference to the scene in Série noire where
Dewaere’s character becomes so deeply frustrated, both with himself and with the
predicament he finds himself in, that he head-butts his car:
You had to explode, to disintegrate. You pushed life to its limits. You went at top speed. You went at
another speed, at another setting. It wasn’t really that you didn’t want to live, but rather that you suffered
too much from living. Each day you dwelled on the same shit, the same horrors in your head. In the end,
inevitably, you went mad. In Série noire you slammed your head against the bonnet of your car. I always
feel uncomfortable thinking of that scene. I get the impression that it’s a testimonial film. You beat
yourself, you throw yourself against walls. There was a desperate aggression, rebellious hysteria to Série
noire. (Depardieu 1988: 55)
265
This chapter develops some of the observations made here by Depardieu, in particular,
his reference to ‘rebellious hysteria’. This notion of ‘rebellious hysteria’ needs to be
qualified in relation to Bronfen’s discussion of hysteria. For Bronfen, hysteria can be a
rebellious way of performing the self. In Bronfen’s discussion of the poet Anne Sexton,
who was herself diagnosed as a manic-depressive hysteric, Bronfen proposes that via
hysteria, Sexton was able to communicate a message of discontent that protested against
the structures of patriarchy (Bronfen, 1998: xiv and 290-331). However, hysteria is not
always a site of resistance, and can instead be viewed as one of repression and loss (as I
noted in Chapter Seven). Having identified the aetiology of Dewaere’s hysteria in
relation to F. comme Fairbanks, part of the task here will be to investigate what form of
‘rebellious hysteria’ Dewaere’s star body represents.
Série noire follows the ill-fated trajectory of Frank Poupart (Dewaere). Frank is an
unsuccessful door-to-door salesman who dreams of another existence beyond the
impoverished urban periphery where he lives unhappily with his wife, Jeanne (Myriam
Boyer). Frank meets Mona (Martine Trintignant), a teenager who lives with her cruel
aunt, and falls in love with her. Frank plots with Mona to steal her Aunt’s secret fortune
so that he and Mona can escape their existence. The plot fails when Frank’s scheming
boss Staplin (Bernard Blier) blackmails him into giving up his loot. Frank’s unhappy
fate is consequently sealed.
Série noire was based on Jim Thompson’s crime novel A Hell of a Woman (1954). As a
cultural intertext, Thompson’s novel is in dialogue with many of the key features of
Série noire, including masculinity and hysteria, as well as psychosis, absence and
disorder. Robert Polito describes Thompson’s work as follows:
266
[His novels] chart a descent into madness and extinction. The demonic impulses […] are unleashed rather
than quelled at the conclusions of his books, with the result that […]Thompson’s hero […] achieve[s] not
a new life but a terrifying nothingness. (Polito 2000: 126)
We recall that, for the hysteric it is this ‘nothingness’ or loss, that they most fear and
that they try to escape. As we shall see, Série noire articulates, via Dewaere’s
performance and the culturally and socially specific location of the banlieue, this
‘terrifying nothingness’ within the context of 1970s France.
Because it offers such rich pickings in terms of Dewaere’s persona, this chapter will
centre itself around the film’s opening sequence and considers the interaction between
performance, place and sound. This will allow me to show how this enclosed filmic
space acts as a metonymy of the film’s shifting topographies of masculinity, and of
hysteria. As the opening credits begin to roll, Frank steps out of his parked car onto the
deserted wasteland and begins a solitary performance. In the background, signs of
modernised life (high-rises, cars and a Printemps store) are distanced from Frank. This
very opening moment and subsequent first sequence already set in place the
topographies of masculinity and hysteria which I shall endeavour to unravel in two
ways. Firstly, this chapter will discuss the geographical location of the film: the Parisian
banlieue. I will consider the troubled identity of this location during the late 1970s and
will look at the implications this holds for the construction of masculinity and hysteria
in the film. Secondly,, I will analyse how the performance Frank delivers in this
opening sequence relates to the space/ place he occupies and how it functions in the
constitution of gender.
In one of her early discussions of gender identity, Judith Butler states that ‘the body is
an historical situation, […], and is a manner of doing, dramatizing, and reproducing an
267
historical situation’ (Butler 1988: 521). According to Butler, in order to understand how
the body is gendered it is essential to consider the historical (and indeed geographical)
situation the body finds itself in. Thus, here in Série noire, in order to understand how
Frank’s gendered body might dramatise and reproduce a ‘historical situation’ it is
essential to understand the contexts or situations in which Frank finds himself. Série
noire was filmed in the late 1970s in Créteil and St-Maur, two southeastern regions of
the Parisian banlieue. Corneau chose these locations because he felt that the banlieue
would articulate, within a French context, the alienation expressed in Thompson’s
original novel. In an interview Corneau stated that the banlieue is the ‘the urban space
where alienation is the most extreme, even if its inhabitants have an illusion of liberty’
(Garsault and Sineux 1979, 41). According to Corneau, then, the banlieue epitomised an
extreme sense of alienation.
Conversely, the original sociological blueprint for the high rises that populate the
banlieue was optimistic. In France during the 1950s and 1960s the banlieue and its
high-rises were seen as symbols of modernism. However, by the 1970s these spaces
started to decay, and they began to be associated with social and economic deprivation
(Higbee 2001: 141-153). According to Kristin Ross, by the 1970s the Parisian banlieue
was constructed in the following way within the French imagination:
[F]or the Parisian inhabiting and working within the ‘inner circle’, […] the banlieues [seemed like] some
formless magma, a desert of 10 million inhabitants and grey undifferentiated constructions, a circular
purgatory with Paris – paradise – in the middle. From the perspective within […] the suburbs were a
vague terrain ‘out there’: a décor in perpetual recomposition, a provisionary space, or what Perec called
‘espèces d’espaces’. (Ross 1998: 54)
268
Ross’s description proposes that the banlieue was a fragmentary space that was
constantly recomposing or reconstructing itself (Crétail for example underwent a
process of massive urban development in the late 1960s). Ross also highlights in her
analysis how, looking out from within the Parisian imagination, the banlieue was a
geographically and socially distant space which was unfamiliar and threatening.
Unsurprisingly, the fragmentary topography of the banlieue was mirrored by the
precarious existence of its inhabitants. A key factor to this instability was
unemployment. During the presidency of Giscard D’Estaing (1974-1981)
unemployment rose from 389,300 to 1,680,000 (Wright 1984: 22), and according to
Colin Jones, the banlieue was the most profoundly affected by this crisis (Jones 2004:
526). Consequently, for many of those living in the banlieue, their spatial and economic
existence was unstable. Moreover, widespread unemployment also meant that the fixity
of gender roles was destabilised within the home.
In Série noire Corneau accentuates and manipulates this sense of desolation in the
banlieue locations through his use of film form and technology. Moreover, he avoids
artificial light and sets (Garsault and Sineux 1979: 15 and 16)145, which allows him to
capture the grey, deteriorating landscape. Corneau’s use of camerawork connects
Dewaere/ Frank’s body to this space. In order to underline Frank’s separation from
signs of modernised life, as well as from emotional and familial attachments, Corneau
frequently uses long shots. In these external shots Corneau associates Frank/Dewaere’s
body with the emptiness of the wasteland, aligning it with the discarded car parts that
are left in intermittent heaps. But Corneau also sought, in his use of internal shots, to
intensify Frank’s entrapment, which he experiences both within the destructive pattern
145
Only one space (the prison) was built specifically for the film.
269
of his life and within the geography of the banlieue. In order to capture Dewaere’s
frenetic performance of Frank’s hysteria (already alluded to by Depardieu) and to
maximise the impact of the location, Corneau pushed the boundaries of contemporary
French film technology. Corneau used lightweight Panaflex cameras (created in 1972)
and the newly invented Panaglide (Garsault and Sineux 1979: 15 and 16). The
Panaglide is a counterbalanced camera jig that is a relative of the Steadicam (itself only
used for the first time for Rocky in 1976). It allows camera operators to work in small
spaces without the use of a dolly. It also means that, although the camera is strapped to
the operator’s front, their movement is not transmitted to the camera (Allen 1998: 120121). Instead, the camera could be in-tune both with the shape of the actor’s movement
and with the space within which they were situated.
In this respect the Panaflex and the Panaglide were perfect for the film Série noire.
They allowed for greater movement in original locations, which did not have sufficient
space to accommodate traditional camera equipment. The Panaglide and the Panaflex
were able to follow Dewaere’s chaotic movements around small spaces such as Frank’s
apartment (particularly those scenes shot in his bathroom). This form of technology
presents an interesting paradox, in that the camera has more freedom than Dewaere,
thus intensifying his own claustrophobic conditions. Corneau’s use of sound technology
was similarly innovative, and once again came in response to the locations and the
movements of the actors. Corneau wanted his actors to have maximum freedom, (in
order to connect with their immediate spatial environment), and thus ensured that the
equipment allowed them to do this. The actors wore microphones pinned to their clothes
(the first time this had been done in France) to give them maximum mobility as well as
to block out peripheral sounds. Corneau explains that:
270
If they wanted to leave the room, or even go out onto the street, we had to be able to follow them.
(Corneau quoted in Garsault and Sineux 1979: 39)
Although they were not improvised, Corneau expresses here the manner in which the
actors’ performances were reflexive and instinctive. Consequently, the isolation and
inescapability that permeates the film is not constructed artificially through set design
but emanates instead from the topography of real locations and from the physical
connection of the actors with that space.
The opening sequence of Série noire encapsulates the alienating topography of the
banlieue as seen by Corneau. The film opens with a long shot of an urban wasteland. In
the background we see high rises under construction. This recalls Ross’s description of
the banlieue, as a space of constant change and redevelopment or in Perec’s words, an
espèce d’espaces. In front of the high-rises there is a ring road along which cars speed
by. This mobility contrasts with Frank’s car, which is stationary – emblematic of his
entrapment. Indeed, during the course of the film, Frank drives around the same series
of deserted spaces within the banlieue: Staplin’s office, Mona’s house, his own home
and the wastelands – to which (paradoxically) he goes in order to seek solace. Crucially,
he never leaves the confines of the banlieue. Frank’s experience is therefore cyclical in
its nature. As if to underscore this we later learn that wherever Frank and Jean had
moved to their home always became a taudis (hovel), a symptom of spiralling
degeneration and no exit.
Frank’s car is not a signifier of success, nor is it a source of spatial or economic
mobility. Frank is trapped within his cyclical existence. As a door-to-door salesman,
Frank’s job requires him to work from his car, which we learn has been acquired on hire
purchase. Frank’s job requires him to sell, but he is removed from centralised sites of
271
commerce like the hypermarché Printemps, which is featured in the middle ground of
this opening sequence. Printemps reappears in the background on several occasions in
the film. We note that Frank never enters into it, and is thus perpetually positioned
outside the mainstream consumer space. Frank’s customers are similarly removed from
this space, and are unable to purchase products outright. In this way they might be seen
as victims of the capitalist system. Like Frank, his customers possess the desire to
consume that capitalism encourages, but they lack the capital with which to integrate
themselves fully within this system. Moreover, although Frank has a job, we are
regularly reminded that his employment is precarious. Firstly, we know Frank is
incompetent and regularly siphons funds from his accounts, thus jeopardising his
position (he is at one point jailed after his boss reports him to the police). Secondly,
Frank receives commission on his sales (33%) and his income therefore fluctuates (we
know he is an unsuccessful salesman). Both these factors compound his economic
impotence.
Frank’s lack of economic and spatial stability extends to his social existence within the
domestic space. Frank lives in a rundown and old-fashioned building with his wife,
Jeanne. Jeanne is uninterested in domesticity and their conjugal home appears to have
rotted away with their marriage. Within Jeanne and Frank’s home, the codes and
conventions of the domestic sphere and marriage are no longer enforced. We first see
their home when Frank returns from work near the beginning of the film. The space is
completely disordered, dirty and chaotic. Just as a cooker is discarded outside Mona’s
house, in Frank’s home objects of domesticity have been similarly cast aside. An
ironing board is propped up against the wardrobe with a sheet haphazardly thrown over
the top. As the camera pulls out we see that this ironing board has also been burnt.
Newspapers lie strewn across the floor and the coffee table (just like the dining table in
272
Mona’s house, which is cluttered with empty bottles of water and loose papers)146. As
Frank moves in to the kitchen (the supposed centre of domesticity), we see that this
space is even more haphazard and cluttered. Frank moves in and out of these rooms,
whilst his wife sits immobile on the sofa. Her immobility matches that of the
dysfunctional domestic objects. She, like them, is not functioning in the way that is
expected, she does not greet her husband as he enters the room, nor does she voluntarily
ask him about his day. Although Jeanne is associated with filth (a stereotypical and
misogynistic conception of the female body), this does not simplify the gender roles that
she plays. Instead, given that this filth occurs within the domestic space (a space which
traditionally functions to contain and control dirt), she in fact subverts fixed
expectations of gender roles. Thus, to a certain extent, Jeanne challenges (or certainly
transgresses) the boundaries of gendered identities within her home.
Early on in the film Jeanne leaves Frank temporarily. Before she moves out she destroys
Frank’s clothes, ripping them apart and showering them with ink. Following her
departure Frank clears up the ‘taudis’ (hovel), and sanitises the domestic space. Frank
cleans the house in order to remove Jeanne’s troublesome presence and regain control
over his environment. This desire to remove Jeanne’s problematic body (and its traces)
from the home, could be seen not simply as an attempt to remove an unclean body, but
rather to eradicate the threat she poses to Frank’s gender identity. For although Frank,
as we shall see, desires a female-other to consolidate his identity, he cannot cope with
Jeanne (who does not clearly fit the role of ‘other’). By labelling Jeanne as ‘filth’, Frank
attempts to identify her as ‘other’ and to stabilise his own masculine identity but in a
way that is not directly linked to the feminine other. Here, Jeanne’s filth is the abject
body, the body Frank so desperately seeks not to be. This process is consistent with
146
In this respect Mona offers no magic alternative to the flawed domesticity that Jeanne offers,
regardless of what Frank allows himself to believe.
273
Julia Kristeva’s argument, in a slightly different context, regarding the construction of
the abject in The Powers of Horror (1980). Here Butler summarises Kristeva:
The ‘abject’ designates that which has been expelled from the body, discharged as excrement, literally
rendered ‘Other’. This appears as an expulsion of alien elements, but the alien is effectively established
through its expulsion. The construction of the ‘not me’ as the abject establishes the boundaries of the
body which are also the first contours of the subject (Kristeva quoted in Butler 1999: 169) 147.
Thus, by expelling Jeanne (dirt) Frank attempts to establish the boundaries of his own
masculine identity, and to protect the contours of his own subjectivity, which, as we
shall see, are constantly under attack within the film. Frank attempts to irreversibly
eradicate Jeanne as a threat to his identity when he murders her. Towards the end of the
film, Jeanne becomes increasingly suspicious about her husband’s behaviour. Her
questions pose an increasing threat to Frank’s plan, and therefore to the maintenance of
the borders of his masculinity. Significantly, the murder takes place in the sanitising
space of the bathroom (a place where dirt, and in this case, Jeanne, can potentially be
removed).
When he first enters the bathroom, Frank lights his first cigarette, which he barely
smokes. He stubs the cigarette against the side of the sink until it falls apart. He then
washes it way – showering Ajax over the sink and the glass shelf above it. He scrubs
until every last trace is removed and then dries the sink with a towel. Frank then lights
another cigarette immediately afterwards, as if the first had never existed. Arguably, this
act of destroying, cleaning, eradicating and replacing prefigures the murder of Jeanne
that will shortly take place in the bathroom, in that Frank’s murder is also acted out in
order to remove the threat of the dirt that she represents. However, crucially, when
Although Butler here uses the word ‘Other’ (Autre), I am aware that in the context of Jeanne the word
‘other’ is more appropriate. We recall that ‘Other’ (Grand Autre) refers to the male Other situated within
the Symbolic, whereas other ‘objet petit a’ refers to women and other marginals.
147
274
Frank kills Jeanne, he is unable to cleanly dispose of the body (unlike the cigarette) and
he leaves her lying on the floor. Moreover, whereas he is able simply to light another
cigarette in order to replace the last, he is unable to do so with his marriage, as we
shortly discover that his replacement relationship with Mona is doomed (a point to
which I shall return). We are therefore left with the impression that, having left the
bodily trace of Jeanne and her ‘dirt’ unattended in this way, Frank will be unable to
escape the crime he has committed and escape his existence as he knows it.
Furthermore, we also know that Frank’s attempt to remove the presence of Jeanne
occurs partly because she represents the other that he must reject within himself.
However, Jeanne’s murder does not occlude the other that exists within Frank. Instead,
we see it magnified. Having strangled his wife Frank returns to the sink to wash his
face. He looks straight into the mirror and asks ‘qu’est ce que tu regardes?’ (what are
you looking at?). By interrogating himself in this way, we see that the (feminine) other
clearly still exists within Frank. Thus, despite his desperate attempts, the ‘not me’ or the
abject that Kristeva describes continues to reside within himself, preventing him from
establishing ‘the boundaries of the body which are also the first contours of the
[masculine] subject’ (Kristeva quoted in Butler 1999: 169).
As a less challenging alternative to Jeanne, Frank turns to the younger and, less
threatening, Mona for affection. Unlike Jeanne, Mona has been subjugated to sexual
slavery by her aunt, and therefore represents a viable and submissive substitute.
However, even Mona does not secure Frank’s heterosexual masculinity, as they do not
consummate their relationship, despite Mona’s best attempts. With Mona (she who is
one – unified) Frank fails in another way in his attempts to solidify his own being. Once
again he cannot transcend into adulthood (or indeed man hood) by fulfilling his sexual
agency with Mona.
275
What we thus see is that, in Série noire, threats to the stability of Frank’s identity
emerge both within his social and sexual relationships and also in the banlieue, whose
threatening and marginalising topography acts as a contributory signifier (and cause)
not just of Frank’s socio-economic existence, but also of his psychological instability
and his mutable gender. This liminal space of loss and deprivation represents a key
motivational force behind the manifestation of Frank’s hysteria. However, although the
banlieue so clearly mirrors his state of lack, it also seems to show that Frank is not
simply its victim. The banlieue also becomes the site of self-expression and selfreclusion. For Frank, the wasteland becomes a space in which he is able to act out his
delusional phantasies. In the opening sequence of the film, we see him performing
differing identities and narratives within and through the same body – a performance
that is symptomatic of hysteria. Alone in the wasteland, with only a radio playing a
soundtrack of Duke Ellington for company, Frank systematically acts out the roles of a
gangster, several different band members and a dancing couple. In this performance, we
begin to see how the actions of his body, to recall Butler, dramatize this banlieue space
and perform troublesome gender. Before analysing this in detail, however, I need to
return to Bronfen and her discussion of the hysteric.
Having identified some of the key reasons for Frank’s pervasive sense of loss and
therefore hysteria (economic, social and sexual deprivation), I shall now concentrate on
the symptoms of Frank’s hysteria. According to Bronfen, the hysteric expresses past
trauma through delusion. Bronfen explains that the trauma the hysteric has experienced
is located at the site of the family (and specifically the mother), or more specifically at
the point at which unity with the family (the mother) was broken. The hysteric thus
nostalgically seeks to be re-unified with this utopian family that is situated within the
past (Bronfen 1998:142). The hysteric desires a return to that which is familiar: the
276
home or heim. It is through delusion or phantasy that this unification is sought.
However, through these phantasies, what the hysteric finds is not unification and heim –
but instead, that which is unfamiliar: the unheimlichkeit. Bronfen describes this last
term as a ‘state of not being fully at home in the world because one’s somatic and
psychic state is fragile and mutable’ (Bronfen 1998: 15). The hysteric therefore
experiences a perpetual state of homelessness.
The process of delusional fantasy draws on multiple narratives. According to Bronfen
this fantasy ‘implies a dynamic, structuring activity that in the act of articulation
constantly draws in new material’ (Bronfen 1998: 142). By drawing in and on ‘new
material’ the hysteric constantly and necessarily identifies with multiple and diverse
narratives. Given that the hysteric experiences multiple narratives it is unsurprising,
then, that the hysteric also inhabits multiple temporal spaces. The hysteric
simultaneously communicates the past, present and the future through his/her
experience. Bronfen paraphrases Freud to explain it as follows:
In temporal structure they knot together three events: a current impression that provokes an earlier
experience when the wish was fulfilled and the phantasized future event that promises satisfaction once
again. (Bronfen 1998: 143).
Through this identification with multiple temporal spaces the hysteric articulates the
complexity and trauma of their thwarted desires. Since each space, in its unfamiliarity,
offers a new form of trauma, none of which will bring unification, the hysteric finds
his/herself torn in all temporal directions, and their state of homelessness is perpetuated.
The final key feature of the hysteric that we need to identify here is the way in which
the afflicted body simultaneously identifies with multiple identities and characters. For,
277
if the hysteric occupies multiple temporal spaces or narratives, he/she will also identify
with multiple subjectivities. Furthermore, we can expect that within these spaces of
identity will emerge multiple sexualities, and indeed genders. In this way the concept of
hysteria allows us, Bronfen argues, to conceive of non-gendered experiences of loss.
Referring to Freud, who sees the display of these multiple subjectivities as bisexual,
Bronfen states:
The bisexuality of hysteric symptoms represents a compromise between a libidinal and repressing
impulse and a union of a masculine and feminine conscious, sexual phantasy […]. As a result, during a
hysterical attack the patient can attempt to carry out the activities of various figures appearing in the
phantasy, performing a multiple identification: for example, simultaneously staging contradictory action
that splices being agent of an action and its object. (Bronfen 1998: 146).
Bronfen here underlines the performative and split nature of the hysteric’s delusions.
Her last point also suggests that through this multiple identification, the hysteric loses
his/her identity in the delusional process and that an erasure of the subject in fact
occurs.
If we now return to the opening sequence of Série noire we can read Frank’s hysteria
against Bronfen’s writings. This discussion of this opening sequence will pay particular
attention to Frank’s performance of multiple genders, subjectivies, and histories. In
order to continue this possibility that Frank is a hysteric who experiences multiple
genders, it is important to note that we later learn that Frank's nickname is Poupée.
These two names (Frank and Poupée) conflict in their meaning. Frank is a hard and
solid sounding name that is dominated by consonants. Due to its orthographic proximity
to the French word franc, it also suggests sincerity and loyalty. However, Poupée is also
feminine noun, thus complicating a clear-cut reading of this word. The word Poupée is
dominated by vowels and contains an acute e. ‘Poupée’ therefore has a soft sound. This
278
is linked to the word’s meaning – doll. This word communicates two things, firstly that
this is a body that is malleable and that is controlled by exterior forces (it is the child
that manipulates the doll's movements), and secondly that this is a feminine body, and
furthermore one that is culturally associated with female children. Moreover, as with the
English translation, ‘Poupée’ can also refer to a young woman or girl. Frank/ Poupée
therefore, like all hysterics, displays multiple gender characteristics, and an identity that
is split.
The performance that I shall analyze in the opening sequence falls into three parts,
which I shall call ‘acts’. The tone and identity of this opening scene shifts with each act.
As the scene unfolds, Frank/Poupée displays a split persona and acts out a variety of
roles and narratives. In each act Frank/Poupée begins to express differing identities
within and through the same body, which will be threaded through during the film to a
final explosion of the self. It is these splits in both Frank/Poupée’s identity and the
scene itself that will be investigated here.
ACT ONE
In this first act, we see initial evidence of Frank/ Poupée’s - the hysteric’s identification with multiple characters. As he gets out of his car, and steps out onto the
wasteland, Frank/ Poupée begins to play the role of a gunman or a character from a
policier. Frank/ Poupée not only performs the role of a policier character but also
channels the presence of other characters through his bodily movements. As he gets out
of the car, Frank/Poupée pretends to engage in a fight with an imagined enemy and thus
becomes both the object and the agent of the action (the aggressor and the aggressed).
He begins by successfully fighting him off with his fists. Through Frank/ Poupée’s
actions we then see that his aggressor produces a gun. In retaliation, Frank/ Poupée
279
draws out (as if a gun) a tape player, which he switches on. However, the presence of
the tape player, instead of endowing Frank with the symbol of phallic mastery, only
serves to highlight its absence. I shall return to the function of this tape-player below,
but for now let us record that Frank/ Poupée merely embodies (in caricature form) the
narrative and characters that the policier genre represents – he does not become the
‘ideal’ phallic man.
FIG 25: Act One – Dance of lack
280
FIG 26: Act One – Dance of Lack (tape recorder as gun)
The function of the policier within this sequence is to reference established and ‘solid’
forms of masculinity and to highlight Dewaere’s inability to live up to this iconicity.
During the 1970s, alongside Lino Ventura, the two main policier stars were Alain
Delon and Jean-Paul Belmondo. These two actors embodied coherent forms of
masculinity. Arguably, it is these figures of masculinity with which Frank/ Poupée is
attempting to identify. However, as we see later in the film, he fails to emulate
effectively the narrative or the characters of the policier. This failure to embody ideals
is a familiar trait within Dewaere’s work (as we saw with F. comme Fairbanks). Not
only does he fail in this context (as an ideal policier character), he also fails later on in
the film as an ideal gangster (the reverse image of the ideal policier). We later learn that
Frank/ Poupée is unsuccessful in his attempt to pull off the heist that will ensure his
escape from his socio-economic poverty. Although Frank/ Poupée’s destruction is selfimplemented, it is his boss Staplin who blackmails him into giving over the loot. This is
important since Staplin represents a senior male figure to Frank/ Poupée, and a more
successful crook than the other. Their relationship is deeply unbalanced: Staplin refers
to his employee as ‘Mon petit Frank’, and manipulates him throughout the film
(recalling Frank’s nickname ‘Poupée). This unequal relationship is exemplified in the
281
final scene when Staplin arrives to steal the loot from Frank/ Poupée. Frank/ Poupée is
unable to stop Staplin even with physical violence because of the threat of the police
that Staplin holds over him for earlier misdemeanours. Frank/ Poupée is therefore
unable to overcome this prohibitive father figure, and as a result is revealed as impotent
(signified by the empty suitcase he brings when he goes to meet Mona).
ACT TWO
Back to the opening sequence. The action of turning on the tape recorder initiates the
second act and the aural motif of the film: Duke Ellington’s ‘Moonlight Fiesta’ (1936) –
to which Frank/ Poupée performs by mimicking the various instruments. However,
Frank/ Poupée’s relationship to Ellington’s song reveals further links between his
discordant identity and the wasteland, because, we note in this sequence that Frank/
Poupée does not play in unison with each appropriate instrument. His performance is
discordant with the soundtrack and prevents a sense of unification. Further, Frank/
Poupée’s solitary performance clashes with the origins of the music, which as I shall
explain is inherently inclusive. ‘Moonlight Fiesta’ is associated with Swing, a type of
American jazz music played by big bands in the 1930s and 40s. Swing emerged in the
aftermath of the depression and was linked to Roosevelt’s ‘New Deal’ (1935). The
‘New Deal’ was a wave of reforms that attempted to unify and democratise American
society (Townsend, 2000: 87). Stowe interprets Swing as the ‘preeminent musical
expression of the New deal: a cultural form of ‘the people’, accessible inclusive,
distinctively democratic and thus distinctly American’ (Stowe quoted by Townsend,
2000: 87). In contrast, Frank/ Poupée is denied, and denies himself, any kind of
inclusiveness and is, thus, distanced from human interaction. The unification associated
with this song is therefore incongruous with this isolated performer.
282
FIG 27: Act Two – Dance of Lack
The architecture associated with swing further highlights the loss experienced by Frank/
Poupée within the banlieue. Swing music was generally consumed in large musical
halls that were tightly packed with jubilant dancers (Townsend, 2000: 75). The sombre
backdrop of Frank/ Poupée’s experience of Ellington’s song contrasts with the
collectivised and celebratory origins of Swing music. Frank/Poupée’s surroundings,
which are incongruous with those traditionally associated with swing, draw attention to
his lack of synthesis with the optimistic ideals of this genre of music. His inconsistent
identification with swing music prevents him from truly connecting with either the past
(swing and the 1930s) nor the present (the impoverished banlieue and the 1970s). Thus,
once again Frank/ Poupée the hysteric is denied unification with the past and shifts
uncomfortably between temporalities and spaces. Frank/ Poupée’s relationship to
Ellington’s song therefore recalls the unheimlich, a lack of belonging.
Returning to the detail in the second act of the opening scene, Frank/ Poupée first plays
the trombone and saxophone in quick succession, then the guitar, and finally the drums.
283
Consequently, in this section of his delusional phantasy Frank/ Poupée channels both
the narrative of Ellington’s song plus the individual performers of the piece. These
multiple corporeal articulations might be considered as processes of enunciation. Susan
Hayward argues that, in the process of enunciation, the subject erases itself as it moves
on. In normal speech (in this case the body’s speech) there is a constant three-way split
between the enunciator (the subject of the enunciation), the enounced (the subject that
has been enounced or acted upon) and finally the enunciator who has moved on from
the original moment of enunciation (1996: 83). In the case of Frank/ Poupée there is an
‘over’ enunciation. Frank/ Poupée is constantly channelling the speech and actions of
others (for example those of the policier, the gangster and the musicians). In this way he
is constantly engaged in the process of enunciation and therefore self-erasure. Thus,
although this adoption of multiple identities might be considered as a positive
expression of hybridity, we can see that he commands none of these individualities.
With each corporeal articulation Frank/Poupée erases the last. We are consequently
reminded, then, that these are empty gestures matched by their desolate space.
ACT THREE
Finally in act three, Frank/ Poupée plays the role of a dancer. As he comes to the end of
his musical performance he becomes aware of another character. He approaches what
we assume to be an imaginary female and asks her to dance. Since this person is in
reality not present, it is Frank/ Poupée’s own body (through the way in which it curves
to support the imaginary figure) that channels the new figure’s presence. Significantly,
Frank/ Poupée first holds the traditionally female dancing position. But then he switches
to the male hold. It is at this point that Frank/ Poupée occupies both the female and the
male body, and we begin to see an expression – through the body performance – of
284
unstable gendering. Frank/ Poupée’s articulation of multiple genders serves as a
reminder of his unstable identity and the impossibility of his desire to be unified with
the ‘other’. Since, if Frank/ Poupée channels multiple genders and occupies the position
of subject and object simultaneously (as he does in this scene) then the ‘other’ becomes
interiorised. This channelling of multiple genders is, we recall, symptomatic of a
hysterical attack. According to Bronfen, during such an episode, typically the individual
can attempt to carry out the activities of various figures appearing in the phantasy, performing a multiple
identification: for example, simultaneously staging contradictory action that splices being agent of an
action and its object. (Bronfen 1998: 146)
Frank/ Poupée’s simultaneous embodiment of both the male and female dancer can be
FIG 28: Act Three – Dance of Lack – channelling genders
compared with the ‘contradictory action[s]’ that Bronfen describes above. This dance
thus reveals the conflict that exists within the heart of his identity. Not only that, but it
also underlines the sense of lack that is intrinsic to this performance. The absent
woman, who exists through Frank/ Poupée’s own body and phantasy, prefigures his
ultimately futile attempt to secure a female partner and fixed gender identity. As Frank/
285
Poupée’s life derails towards the end of the film he eliminates all possibility of
unification with a sexual other. We recall that he murders his wife and is unable to elope
with Mona successfully. In fact, throughout the film, Ellington’s ‘Moonlight Fiesta’
provides the vehicle for Frank/ Poupée’s unsuccessful quest for the female other. Frank/
Poupée seeks (what proves to be the false) reassurance of unification from this song. He
listens to the song on two further occasions after this opening sequence. Firstly, when
Jeanne leaves him and he pines for her return. Standing in his empty sitting room,
Frank/ Poupée holds his tape recorder close to him and dances, as if it were a woman.
As Frank/ Poupée shuffles from side to side he moans ‘ne me laisse pas tout seul Jeanne
(don’t leave me on my own Jeanne)’. On this occasion the song allows Frank/ Poupée to
mourn an imaginary happy past he shared with Jeanne. However, the spectator knows
that this is phantasy and that his existence with his wife was miserable. Given that the
music frequently reoccurs within the film and that it provides Frank/Poupée with
reassurance, the music could be considered as a fetish object. Here Townsend
summarises John Corbett’s argument regarding the fetishistic nature of recorded music:
[T]here is something ‘fetishistic’ about listening to recorded music: listeners are obliged to fantasize a
visual presence in order to compensate for the ‘disembodied’ nature of their listening. (Townsend, 2000:
166).
The recorded voice/ music acts to replace that which isn’t there for Frank/ Poupée – the
sexual other and the gun (the phallus, since the recorder was already used as an
imaginary gun in Act 1). Instead of fetishising the female form, as we would expect
from a film noir (Hayward, 1996: 289), (to which Série noire makes generic reference),
Frank/ Poupée displaces absence on to the presence of the music and the tape recorder.
The tape recorder is thus a double fetish, signifying two layers of lack – the music
displaces the fear of castration that the woman’s lack provokes. However, in Frank/
286
Poupée’s case, lack is everywhere and is not clearly located within the female body.
Lack is found in his language, his barren surroundings and his rapidly deteriorating
body (signified by his pale skin, his grey suits and his moments of physical weakness).
The final time the song appears is at the end of the film. Frank/ Poupée has at this point
lost the stolen money to his boss Staplin but does not tell Mona, presumably fearing that
she will leave him. As the two prepare to elope with the empty suitcase, Frank/ Poupée
swings Mona around him and repeatedly shouts ‘on n’a plus rien à craindre (we have
nothing more to fear)’. The emptiness of this gesture is mirrored in the bleak space in
which Frank/ Poupée and Mona find themselves. They stand bathed in an artificial
spotlight (or moonlight) that highlights their isolation. The spotlight adds a sense of
theatricality to the scene and therefore reminds the spectator of the performative nature
of Frank/ Poupée’s phantasies. Success and escape for Frank/ Poupée are a mere
illusion.
Language and the process of self-erasure
The emptiness of this final scene echoes the self-erasure that occurs in the first three
acts of the opening sequence of the film. We recall that this self-erasure occurs via
Frank/ Poupée/ Dewaere’s corporeal movements in the three ‘acts’ analysed in this
chapter. Elsewhere in the film, self-erasure takes place at a linguistic level. Forbes
offers an interesting discussion of language in Série noire. Forbes suggest that through
speech, Frank/ Poupée engages with a multitude of different registers, all of which he is
unable to master (Forbes, 1992: 71). In the original source text A Hell of a Woman,
Thompson avoids a major generic code associated with detective novels or films: the
flashback. Hayward (1996: 86) suggests that the filmic flashback allows a form of
empowerment. Whereas in normal speech there is a constant three-way split between
287
the enunciator, the enounced, and finally the enunciator that has moved on from the
original moment of speech (1996: 83), in the flashback the enunciated ‘I’ is able to
unify itself (through the flashback) with the subject of enunciation. Hayward concludes
therefore that the flashback is empowering in that it allows ‘the psyche control over the
subconscious’ (1996: 86).
By using an interior monologue instead of a flashback Thompson keeps his protagonist
one step away from self-empowerment. Corneau takes this removal from selfempowerment a stage further. In Série noire the interior monologue becomes
exteriorised. Instead of externalising his thoughts retrospectively via a non-diegetic
voice-over, Frank/Poupée externalises his thought-processes, out loud, in the immediate
present. In order to explain how the external monologue results in a form of oral
disenfranchisement it is worth considering Silverman’s discussion of the internal
monologue and the voice over (1988). These two systems of communication can be
seen as the two steps before the external monologue. Silverman contrasts the internal
monologue with the voiceover in the following way:
The voice in question [the internal monologue] functions almost like a searchlight suddenly turned upon
the character’s thoughts, it makes audible what is ostensibly inaudible, transforming the private into the
public […]On these occasions the discursive mode is direct rather than in-direct. No distance separates
teller from tale; instead, the voice-over is stripped of its temporal protection and thrust into diegetic
immediacy. Thus deprived of enunciatory pretence, it is no longer in a position to masquerade as the
point of textual origin. Moreover, since this voice-over derives from an interior rather than exterior
register (in other words, since it represents thoughts rather than speech) the listener’s access to it is
unlicensed by the character from whom it derives, and so clearly constitutes a form of auditory mastery.
(Silverman, 1988:53)
288
Like the internal monologue, Frank/ Poupée’s external monologue ‘makes audible what
is ostensibly inaudible’ and transforms ‘the private into the public’. As Silverman
explains, the internal monologue allows the listener/ spectator total access to the
character’s thoughts. Similarly, we are given total access to the chaotic machinations of
Frank/Poupée’s mind. Furthermore, since ‘the listener’s access to [the internal
monologue – or in this case external monologue] is unlicensed’ by Frank/ Poupée, then
we, as spectators have ‘auditory mastery’ over him. Frank/ Poupée’s external
monologue thus denies him the power afforded to the subject by the voice-over.
According to Silverman, then, the speaker is disenfranchised by the internal (or
external) monologue. It allows the speaker (in this instance Frank/ Poupée) no linguistic
mastery. It also forces the speaker into a series of presents in that this mode of speech
does not allows for any kind of retrospective reflection. Despite being trapped as he is
in this ‘series of presents’, Frank/ Poupée’s use of language is still retrograde (and
therefore nostalgic) in that he constantly draws upon vocabulary and phrases already
spoken by others (Forbes, 1992: 71). The content of his language does then locate him,
to a certain extent, in the past. Consequently, we see that, in the mode and content of his
speech, Frank/ Poupée is constantly torn between temporalities, situating himself as he
does, both in the present and the past. Through his use of language, therefore, Frank/
Poupée is denied security by a singular temporality, and thus experiences as sense of
homelessness (the unheimlichkeit).
Other aspects of Frank/Poupée’s linguistic self-expression compound the
disenfranchisement that occurs via his external monologue. As I suggest above Frank/
Poupée frequently draws on the language of others and constantly expresses himself
through quotations, song, and slang. More seriously, as I suggested in my discussion of
Jeanne’s murder, he talks to himself as if he was a subject outside of his own body.
289
Frank/ Poupée’s use of language is thus disordered and seemingly uncontrolled and
unmastered. This analysis of Frank/Poupée’s dialogue is confirmed by Georges Perec,
the novelist who wrote the film’s dialogues. Here Forbes summarises Perec’s thoughts
on Frank/ Poupée’s character:
In Perec’s view Poupart is a “character who has completely lost his way, who is off his trolley, who
makes up stories […]” For him the protagonist is “someone who has no way in language. He has to look
at his language and his reactions in other people. He is totally conditioned by the world around him” […]
“He is delirious in the psychiatric sense of the word”. Like the viewers of Série noire, Frank is familiar
with the language of the genre, but this is simply one point of reference against which the dialogue of the
film is judged […] because of his personality disorder he cannot consistently embrace any one form of
language and instead switches register and dialect according to the identity of the interlocutor or the
identity he himself is attempting to assume. (Forbes 1992: 71)
Here Perec and Forbes identify the way in which Frank/ Poupée becomes a channel
through which uncontrolled cultural and linguistic references and influences pass.
Frank/ Poupée’s use of language points clearly towards the Poupée dimension of his
character, since, like the doll’s body/ speech, his language is controlled by exterior
forces. Frank/ Poupée’s lack of linguistic control, which Silverman associates with the
internal (or external) monologue, renders ‘the situation culturally unacceptable for the
“normal” male subject’ (Silverman, 1988: 54). If Frank/ Poupée is to present a
‘coherent’ form of masculinity, he must in theory command his corporeal and verbal
language – signifiers of a successfully performed (male) gender identity. However,
Frank/ Poupée’s use of language does not present a coherent form of gender identity.
He, in fact, occupies multiple gender positionings – a state that we would expect from
the hysteric.
290
Language consistently undermines Frank/ Poupée’s assertion of identity and
masculinity within Série noire. Despite this, it is through language that Frank/ Poupée
attempts to secure a dominant position in relation to the other characters in the film. He
is most successful, when he attempts to dominate Andreas (a Greek immigrant) and
Mona. For Frank/ Poupée, Mona offers him the dichotomy (or the other) that he seeks.
She represents silence and plenitude (her name means ‘one’). In addition, for Frank/
Poupée the hysteric Mona occupies the third temporal space: that of the utopian future.
In the original novel, Mona is afforded far greater command of speech. In the film, she
rarely utters a word and Frank/ Poupée occupies the dominant verbal position
(Thompson 1967: 22-3). In the film version, she communicates to Frank/ Poupée almost
entirely through her body actions and utters only four complete sentences. Frank/
Poupée on the other hand speaks continuously.
Comparisons can be made between Frank’s relationship with Mona, and his relationship
with Andreas, a Greek immigrant who is a former customer of Frank/Poupée and an exlodger of Mona’s Aunt. Whereas Mona and Frank/ Poupée never spend the night
together, Andreas and the latter spend at least twenty-four hours together in Frank/
Poupée’s house. Arguably therefore, Andreas serves as a replacement to Jeanne when
she leaves Frank/ Poupée. During this time Andreas takes on a nurturing role,
particularly when Frank/ Poupée has an hysterical episode. Frank/Poupée attempts to
position himself as a dominant figure in relation to (the nurturing maternal) Andreas,
largely though his superior use of language. This is exemplified when the two men
drunkenly sing a song together. Significantly, as I shall explain shortly, it is Frank/
Poupée who controls Andreas’s understanding of the song. Frank/ Poupée convinces
Andreas to accompany him to Mona’s Aunt’s house, so that he can use the latter as the
fall guy for the robbery that he and Mona plan to commit. In the car on the way to the
291
house, Andreas tries to ask Frank/ Poupée what the lyrics are at the end of the song, but
Frank/ Poupée cuts him short and tells him to shut up. When they arrive at the house
Frank/ Poupée tells Andreas to stay in the car, and wait for a signal to follow him in.
This gives Frank/ Poupée the time to kill Mona’s Aunt. As Andreas follows Frank/
Poupée into the house he initially stands, blinded by the dark of the unlit doorway.
Whilst Frank/ Poupée prepares to kill Andreas, the latter once again asks what the final
lyrics of the song are. This time, Frank/ Poupée does answer Andreas, but as he does so
he shoots him dead. Two factors need to be drawn from this incident. Firstly, Frank/
Poupée demonstrates both apparent linguistic control (Frank/ Poupée’s superior
command of language to Andreas), and physical control over Andreas’s existence.
These forms of control are, however, undermined by three factors: first that this is not
Frank/ Poupée’s gun (it is Mona’s Aunt), second, the crime is chaotic and unplanned,
and third that these are not Frank/ Poupée’s own words (they are the lyrics of a song
that he is reiterating). As the crime is chaotic, and, as we know, ultimately futile, it is
further evidence of Frank/ Poupée’s attempt to embody the characters of the policier but
with little success. This failure to embody, master or control the narratives and
characters of other cultural forms (in this case the song and the policier) is a key theme
within the film. It is also a central tenant of the hysteric’s identity who, we know, acts
as a channel for subjectivities and narratives that they cannot master.
A further observation needs to be made in relation to Andreas’ murder. As with the
killing of Jeanne later in the film, this act also represents the elimination of the maternal
body. In the case of Andreas, he is killed off shortly after standing in as a nurturing
mother figure to Frank/ Poupée, for example, when Frank/ Poupée bursts into tears
Andreas stays to comfort him, and when he becomes agitated Andreas suggests Frank/
Poupée take a bath and have a coffee. Similarly, Jeanne is killed off after having begun
292
to manifest maternal tendencies towards Frank/ Poupée (she maintains the house and
makes him breakfast). With both Jeanne and Andreas, their maternal impulses towards
Frank/ Poupée are punished because, arguably, they encourage the manifestation of
Frank/ Poupée’s vulnerability, a dimension of his identity that he seeks to deny and
repress.
Conclusion
According to Ross, the banlieue had a mutable and unstable identity. To adapt Butler’s
words, Dewaere, through his performance, ‘dramatizes’ this banlieue space. This space
characterises Frank/ Poupée’s wandering and homeless existence. The emptiness and
instability of this barren wasteland reminds us that this landscape is a non-maternal
space, one which will not provide the familiarity and unification that the maternal
womb offered. Thus, like all hysterics, Frank/Poupée is perpetually out-of-place. For
Frank/ Poupée the hysteric’s sense of homelessness or the unheimlichkeit is
omnipresent, and the concept of a fixed masculinity is unobtainable.
Although, as we have seen, the wasteland space serves to highlight Frank/ Poupée’s
exclusion from dominant society, it also serves as a space in which to act out his
delusional phantasies. From the very beginning we are made aware of the lack of
coherence in Frank/Poupée’s performance of hybridity and multiplicity. Thus it is
unsurprising if we later learn that it is Frank/ Poupée’s unrelenting attempt to act out
these different narratives and characters that seals his downfall. The performance in the
opening sequence highlights his desire to formulate what he conceives as a successful
masculine identity, i.e. one which is solid and economically and socially viable.
However, it is quickly made evident that these are impossible desires. The barren
293
wasteland and his ultimately, as we have discussed, self-erasing performances confirm
that these are merely delusional phantasies, which are, as with all hysterics, untenable.
By jumping from one identity to another in the opening sequence, a multitude of splits
occurs, thus denying the unification the hysteric seeks. Furthermore, the splits
compound Frank/Poupée’s failure to adhere to the codes of masculinity that dominate
the French policier. In contrast, Frank/ Poupée’s gender identity is characterised by
discontinuity and incoherence. We recall that ‘“intelligible” genders are those which in
some way sense, institute and maintain relations of coherence and continuity’ (Butler
1988: 519). Following this definition, as a result of his hysteria, Frank/ Poupée does not
manifest an ‘intelligible’ gender identity.
The deterioration of Frank/Poupée’s body, which is unforgivingly captured by
Corneau’s naturalistic use of mise-en-scène, draws our attention to Dewaere’s own
deteriorating body. Washed out by his character’s grey suits and the desolate landscape
of the banlieue, Dewaere’s body appears a shadow of its former self. Série noire was
filmed chronologically, and, as the film progresses we gradually see the strain of the
performance and Dewaere’s heroin addiction on the actor’s body. The symptoms of the
actor’s addiction appear clear: loss of weight, pale skin and sunken eyes. Physically and
mentally the film had a huge impact on Dewaere. Once filming was over, Dewaere was
so exhausted that he took fifteen months off (Esposito 1989: 66). Dewaere’s frenetic
performance of hysteria in this film thus reveals some of the fissures that were emerging
in his own off-screen life. On the film’s release Dewaere explained in interview that he
had been in some way damaged by his film and stated that ‘Afterwards, I was never the
same again. It did something psychologically in my head’ (Plantel, 1979). Moreover,
Série noire arguably provoked a chain of roles played by Dewaere, which in their
respective manifestations of marginality caused damage to Dewaere and his star
294
identity. In the next, and final, chapter I shall examine two of these films in more detail:
Un Mauvais Fils (Sautet, 1980) and Beau père (Blier, 1981).
295
Chapter Nine
Dean man walking:
Beau pére (Blier 1981) and
Un Mauvais fils (Sautet, 1980)
296
Chapter Nine
Dead man walking: Beau père (Blier, 1981) and Un Mauvais fils (Sautet, 1980)
In this final chapter I look at two of the most notable films that Dewaere made at the
end of his career: Beau père (Blier, 1981) and Un Mauvais fils (Sautet, 1980). These
films clearly mark the last and final stage in the process of Dewaere’s deterioration that
began with Série noire. In the previous chapter I investigated the frenetic explosion of
the self that takes place in Corneau’s film. Here I will show how in Beau père and Un
Mauvais fils we witness, in contrast, an implosion of the self.
Beau père and Un Mauvais fils are noteworthy for a number of reasons. Although both
films were relatively unsuccessful at the box office, and, in the case of Beau père
received inconsistent reviews, Dewaere’s performance was widely praised. Moreover,
out of the seven films Dewaere made during the 1980s, Un Mauvais fils was his most
watched film, and Beau père was the third.148 Un Mauvais fils was released during a
period of huge controversy in Dewaere’s career. Shortly before the film’s release
Dewaere physically assaulted Patrick de Nussac, a journalist who had written an article
which the actor felt was excessively intrusive (Loubier 2002: 284-6). The assault was
widely condemned by the press and by the public, and the incident is believed to have
negatively affected both the critical and commercial success of Un Mauvais fils.
Dewaere received César nominations for each film (1981 and 1982), but was denied on
both occasions – a result which hurt him greatly, and which some felt was linked to the
de Nussac affair (Loubier 2002: 289-291).
148
During its release in Paris, Un Mauvais fils sold 334,982 tickets, whilst Beau père sold 251,056. Mille
milliards de dollars was the second most viewed film during this post-1980 period with 321,111 tickets
sold.
297
What we can say, however, is that both films have come to signify (though perhaps not
intentionally at the time) Dewaere’s disappointment and self-perceived failure. Blier
wrote Beau père specifically for Dewaere and as such the film draws on a number of
features of Dewaere’s existing star image, for example: his lack of success with women
and the fact that in many of his roles he seemed both to lack virility and to embody
contemporaneous socio-economic hardships such as poverty and unemployment.
Undoubtedly these last elements are in some ways linked – but not exclusively – since
as I have already shown, Dewaere’s lack of virility is tied into his star persona.
Although Sautet did not write Un Mauvais fils specifically for Dewaere it clearly draws
on these same aspects of Dewaere’s star image. However, what is clear is that both
directors use Dewaere’s star body to address larger issues than those of a star body in
decline, namely, the broader concerns of a nation in crisis: that is, widespread
unemployment and increased poverty amongst the lower socio-economic classes.149
Following Dewaere’s death, critics noted that in the last few years of his life the actor
had appeared increasingly drawn, pallid and lifeless – both on and off-screen. Below,
Guy Austin (2003b) draws on the observations of Paris Match (published in 1982) to
make his own assessment of the deterioration of Dewaere’s star body in the two years
preceding his death:
In the 1980s, Dewaere’s performances are increasingly restrained, passive, and bleak: he walks instead of
running, mumbles instead of shouting. His characters lack will power, strength, at times […] even
charisma. The thinning hair gets shorter, the star body seems to shrink […]. This process of etiolation is
summarised by Paris Match: “What happened to him? His shoulders dropped, his legs weak at the knees,
his moustache practically disappeared, like his hair which seems to desert him. A pale-faced lad, floating
in oversized clothes, the man had completely changed, and his “image” would suffer as a result”.
Ultimately, the reduction is complete: from star body to star corpse. (Austin 2003b: 87)
149
We recall that 1980 was an extremely bleak year for France economically (Larkin, 1988: 354).
298
It is Austin’s concept of the shift from star body to star corpse which intrigues me here.
Yet, as this thesis has so far demonstrated, Dewaere’s downward spiral began earlier,
most notably with F. comme Fairbanks and gained momentum with Série noire. Thus,
there is clearly not a sudden shift, as Austin via Paris Match seems to suggest. Indeed,
the deterioration was gradual. However, because the concept itself is very useful, I
would like now to take on board Austin’s identification of Dewaere’s 1980s star body
as a star corpse and re-examine this idea through the sociological concept of ‘social
death’ (which I shall shortly explain). We note that Austin suggests here that the star
corpse, and therefore the star death, occurred as the ultimate conclusion to Dewaere’s
life (i.e. 1982). What I am proposing is that Dewaere’s star body, which had already
been in decline since the mid-1970s, had by now (both these films were produced in
1980) become a victim of social-death — albeit two years before his final, biological
death.
It is first necessary to define this term ‘social-death’, and explain the ways in which I
shall employ it here. This term is used predominantly by sociologists to describe the
way in which the process of death can begin before the final, biological conclusion of
an individual’s life. This definition has, in the last ten years, been extended to describe
numerous cases, which are not necessarily associated with the ageing process.
According to Mulkay, those who have experienced social-death are individuals who
have “ceased to exist as an active agent in the ongoing social world of some other
party” (Mulkay quoted in Hallam et al 1999: 43). For Hallam et al, this definition can
include numerous, excluded members of society, as they explain below:
Images of human life in its final stages often include the housebound widow, at risk of dying alone and
undiscovered; the greying bodies which line the lounges of residential homes; and the eerie moans of the
299
frail elderly who clog hospital beds. Represented in this way, such individuals come to be constructed as
‘other’. They are seen to have lost their place in society and now find themselves accommodated among
individuals who have never had one […]. The concept of ‘social death’, previously used to describe the
breakdown of social interaction between dying parents and their families […], has now been extended to
incorporate such individuals. (Hallam et al 1999: 43)
Thus, the concept of social death can be used to describe the predicaments of a wide
range of individuals who do not fit within the accepted boundaries of hegemonic
society, and who are thus situated as other. Members of our society who could also be
victims of social death might include the unemployed and drug addicts, due to their
increased removal from mainstream spaces of consumption and production. The
exclusionary fate of the socially dead might also in some ways be compared to that of
those who do not conform to accepted definitions of gender identity. We recall that,
according to Butler and Chinn, those who perform their gender incorrectly, are punished
– often through exclusion.150 Like the socially dead, they risk loosing their place in
society.
The term social death can refer to both our mental and physical being. For some, social
death signals the ‘failure of the body project’ (Hallam et al 1999: 46). Chris Shilling, for
example, understands the term as a predicament ‘where human control [of the body]
ends in a world which is orientated to the successful achievement of control’ (Shilling
quoted in Hallam et al 1999: 46). According to this definition, bodies which deteriorate
or which are abused either by themselves (for example through addiction) or by others,
would fall into this category. Other theorists have highlighted the psychological aspects
of social death. Lawton
150
See Chinn (1997: 299) and (Butler 1988: 528).
300
argues strongly for the possibility of a psychic death which pre-dates bodily death […]. In circumstances
of overwhelming helplessness and despair the self ceases to be. All that remains is an “empty” body.
(Hallam et al 1999: 58)
I want to pause here briefly on these two keys terms/ concepts: the ‘failure of the body
project’ and the ‘empty body’. Both ‘failure’ and ‘emptiness’ engage strongly with
debates that have already been encountered within this thesis in relation to gender
identity and Dewaere’s star body. In each film that I have discussed, post Themroc, the
characters played by Dewaere have attempted, and failed, to reconcile their
inadequacies with ideal forms of virile masculinity, such as Douglas Fairbanks and the
figure of the gangster. In both cases, this has left them helpless, despairing and
ultimately empty (we recall, for example, the symbolic resonance of Frank/ Poupée’s
empty suitcase at the end of Série noire). As we shall see the emptiness of Dewaere’s
star body reaches new profundity in both Beau père and Un Mauvais fils, albeit it to
differing degrees.
I now need to return to my overarching discussion of ‘social-death’, first by making the
obvious remark that the term can be associated with both mental and physical
deterioration. Lawton’s notion of the empty body is linked specifically to a psychic
death. For some critics, those individuals who are unable to communicate verbally, such
as Alzheimer sufferers, are often perceived as socially dead. According to Hallam et al,
the reason for this is society’s tendency to privilege ‘rational verbal interaction in
today’s society’ (Hallam et al 1999: 47).
However, it is important to note that not all of those who are categorised as ‘socially
dead’ are victims of this experience, nor do they necessarily perceive themselves in the
301
same way as those outside them (i.e. as socially dead)151. In order to refine the concept,
Hallam et al propose the following:
We suggest that “social death” should not be seen as a state or an event, but perhaps more accurately as a
social process through which people who are socially disadvantaged become marginalised. (Hallam et al
1999: 48)
What we learn here from Hallam et al’s observations is that social death is a concept
that is projected onto those perceived to be socially dead, and that this projection can
often result in the marginalisation of the individual. According to Hallam et al’s
explanation then, social-death is a construction which occurs from outside the body.
However, in Dewaere’s case, we might argue that ‘social-death’ occurs from both inside
and outside of the star body. From the outside, the press attempted to ‘kill off’
Dewaere’s star body (and thus construct it as socially dead) through their boycott of his
films. Moreover, as we shall see, the stylisation of Dewaere’s body through the miseen-scène and specifically the décor and costume, also constructed him as socially dead.
From inside, the process of social-death occurs through Dewaere’s off-screen self-abuse
both as a result of his drug addiction and his destructive relationships, which, we recall,
removed him from his two ‘families’ (the Maurins and the Café de la Gare). In
addition, we shall see that Dewaere’s performances in both Beau père and Un Mauvais
fils, are forlorn, restrained and static. They thus convey a form of social-death and so
contrast dramatically with the jouissance and, subsequent destructive explosiveness of
Dewaere’s performances in earlier films.
151
See for example Hallam et al (1999: 46), who question this category using the example of elderly
people whose bodies may be deteriorating physically, but whose emotional and psychological activities
are still very much engaged.
302
As a result of these observations, I would argue that this projection of death onto the
bodies of ‘people who are socially disadvantaged’ must in some ways occur through the
process of visual representation. In the remainder of this chapter I shall ask to what
extent Dewaere’s star body (as it is represented through performance, mise-en-scène
and dialogue) is a victim of a form of social death in Beau père and Un Mauvais fils. I
will then go on to ask in what ways this social death interfaces with the manifestations
of hysteria found in F. comme Fairbanks and Série noire. Finally, I shall investigate the
ways in which the social-death of Dewaere’s star body correlates with the simultaneous
(perceived) social death of certain forms of French masculinity which occurred on a
national level at the beginning of the 1980s.
Beau père marks a departure for its director Bertrand Blier. Prior to this film, Blier had
tended to focus on the experiences of small groups, often trios.152 However, in this film
Blier focuses predominantly on a sole character, Rémi Bachelier (Dewaere), an
unsuccessful pianist. On one level, this focus on the individual could point to the wider
culture of individualism which had emerged in France from the late 1970s. On another
level, if we consider that the film was written specifically for Dewaere, we could argue
that this focus on the individual was motivated by Blier’s knowledge of Dewaere’s
increasingly individualised star body (witnessed in, for example, Série noire and Le
Grand embouteillage). Although Beau père focuses, once again, on the failure of men
to maintain successful careers and relationships, there is no evidence here of the
jubilance of Blier’s first two films Les Valseuses and Préparez vos mouchoirs (Harris
2001: 13 and 24). Instead, the film is deeply melancholic. Rémi lives (unhappily) with
his partner (Nicole Garcia) and her teenage daughter (Ariel Besse). Although he is
evidently close to his stepdaughter Marion (hence the title of the film) it is clear from
152
See for example Les Valseuses (1973), Préparez vos mouchoirs (1977) and Buffet froid (1979)
303
the beginning of the film that his relationship with his partner, Martine, has deteriorated.
Shortly after this has been established, Martine is killed in a car accident. In the first
instance, Marion goes to live with her biological father Charly (Maurice Ronet), leaving
Rémi depressed and lonely. Similarly miserable with her father, Marion shortly returns
to Rémi. However, for Marion the nature of her love for Rémi has changed, and she
soon makes it clear that she has fallen in love (and lust) with him. At first Rémi
dismisses her advances, but, before long, the pair are united in a semi-incestuous, sexual
(and certainly illegal) relationship which, although not highly explicit, makes
uncomfortable viewing for the spectator. The union is, predictably, transient, and Rémi
soon moves on to an older woman, an action that is unconvincingly sanctioned by
Marion.
Released a year before Beau père in autumn 1980, Un Mauvais fils casts Dewaere as
Bruno Calgagni, an ex-convict returning from the US after spending six years in prison
for dealing drugs. He returns to France to live with his father René (Yves Allégret – the
former film director), who blames Bruno for the death of his mother who died two years
previously. Despite his initial enthusiasm, Bruno finds it difficult to reintegrate himself
within French society. He is unable to find anything but temporary, manual work.
Moreover, his father finds it difficult to accept his son’s crimes (both real and imagined
[re his mother]) and the pair quickly fall out. Bruno temporarily moves in with one of
his Moroccan workmates and soon manages to find a job with a charitable bookseller,
Dussart (Jacques Dufilho). Here Bruno meets Catherine (Brigitte Fossey), a fellow
heroin addict (who is in intermittent withdrawal). Unfortunately, the pair quickly
relapse back into heroin and lock themselves away from the world. Dussart intervenes
and the pair recommence their respective pathways to rehabilitation. Ultimately, Bruno
finds permanent work as a carpenter, and is reunited with his father, who has been the
304
victim of an industrial accident and is disabled. The conclusion of the film thus
questions the validity of the title of ‘Un Mauvais fils’ as an apt descriptor for Bruno’s
character, since, by the end of the film he counters several of the negative currents that
had previously dominated his life.
Both films chart the lives of individuals who are excluded (by others or by themselves).
For Bruno, his exclusion occurs as a result of his incarceration and his drug addiction.
He is also excluded as a result of his unstable employment status. Unsubtly, Sautet
aligns Bruno with identifiably ‘marginal’ groups throughout the film in order to make
this point153. See for example his relationship with his fellow Moroccan workers and the
bookseller Dussart, who is openly homosexual. In the case of Rémi, both his semiincestuous relationship with Marion and his precarious employment situation
marginalise him from mainstream society. On the few occasions that Rémi is able to
find employment, it is in hotel restaurants where he is ignored by the clientele, who
prefer that he should make the least sound possible.
At this point in my discussion of these two films, it is useful to return to the concept of
the ‘empty body’, which was brought out in my discussion of social death, in order to
define an additional correspondent term, the limp body. Both the empty body and the
limp body are aspects of the concept of ‘social-death’. The word limp, as we shall see,
consistently returns within my discussion of Dewaere’s performance in Beau-père and
Un Mauvais fils. Limp refers to a body that lacks energy or will, and which, in addition,
lacks stiffness or structure. Physiologically, the structures that hold us together are our
bones and our organs. Socio-culturally, our bodies are held together by the codes and
conventions of hegemonic society. We recall that, in relation to gender, Butler argues
153
Although, despite this, as I shall show, Sautet separates Bruno from protesters he passes in the street
who march for unemployment (thus isolating him from certain excluded groups).
305
that some bodies are constructed as ‘unintelligible’ because they do not or cannot allow
themselves to be held together by these codes and conventions. Butler claims that
‘“persons” only become intelligible through becoming gendered in conformity with
recognisable standards of gender intelligibility’ (Butler, 1999: 22). Failure to comply to
these ‘recognisable standards of gender’ causes the body to trouble and question the
laws that seek to establish causal and expressive lines of connection among biological sex, culturally
constituted genders, and the ‘expression’ or ‘effect’ of both in the manifestation of desire through sexual
practice. (Butler 1999: 23)
Both Rémi and Bruno are not ‘held’ by the traditional structures and laws of identity,
and thus on occasion display limp bodies. As I shall shortly discuss, this ‘limpness’ is
most clearly evident when they come into contact with the family. I shall investigate the
detail of their experiences shortly, but as a preliminary indication, I shall briefly outline
the nature of this limpness. In Un Mauvais fils, Bruno’s limpness occurs as a result of
his dysfunctional and destructive family structure, and the sequence of punishments and
prohibitions that the figure of the father imposes upon his son (at least at first). In the
case of Rémi in Beau père, as a supposed father figure to Marion, by actively pursuing a
relationship with his stepdaughter, he fails to proscribe incestuous desire, a core taboo
dictated by the Law of the Father. In this respect the film’s title Beau père can be read
as a deliberate reference to Marion’s displaced Electra complex (i.e. incestuous desire
for the ‘beautiful’ [Beau] father [père]). Rémi’s failure to prevent this complex,
communicates to us that his body is without structure, limp. Moreover, Rémi finds
himself unable to remove himself from the cyclical nature of his relationships with
women with daughters, and furthermore frequently launches himself into episodes of
self-pity and lack of motivation. What becomes clear, however, is that Bruno and Rémi
306
experience different degrees of limpness, and thus of social death (as I shall explain
below).
Earlier, I established the link between the limp body and the empty body: two sides of
the same coin of social death. As Hallam et al note, social-death is a process. In this
respect it is logical to think of it as occurring in stages, or better still as layered events –
at times bodies evidencing themselves as limp, at others as empty, sometimes as both.
In relation to the two films under consideration, I would argue that the limp body and
the empty body might be considered as two (occasionally blurred) occurrences/events in
Un Mauvais fils and Beau père. As I have already explained, the limp body represents
absence of structure and a simultaneous lack of motivation and will (symptoms of
profound despair). The empty body can be considered as the other stage/occurrence in
this process of social-death, when, as a result of the lack of structuring frameworks,
one’s sense of self and thus identity is entirely destroyed and effaced. As we recall,
according to Hallam et al (1999: 58). ‘in circumstances of overwhelming helplessness
and despair the self ceases to be’, and all that is left is the empty body.
The notion of the empty body resonates strongly with our understanding of the image.
Images have often been critically associated with notions of absence and therefore
forms of emptiness. In order to understand the enormity of the emptiness we witness in
Dewaere’s 1980s films, it is at this stage helpful to draw on Steven Shaviro’s The
Cinematic Body (1993), which discusses in detail the notion of absence and presence
within the moving image. Firstly, Shaviro reminds us that ‘the cinematic image is […]
said to be one of lack’ (Shaviro, 1993: 16). Shaviro explains that absence within the
moving image is inextricably related to that which is not there: ‘the lost “presence”
upon which all notions of lack and absence dialectically depend’ (Shaviro, 1993: 20). If
307
we relate this notion of ‘lost presence’ to the emptiness of Dewaere’s 1980s star body,
we can see how, in Dewaere’s case, the ‘lost presence’ that Shaviro describes can be
identified as the loss of his exuberant, energised, and physically animated performances
which characterised his star identity in the early years of his career at the Café de la
Gare and then in films such as Themroc, Les Valseuses and even, to a certain extent, F.
comme Fairbanks (recall the comments made by Paris Match that I cited above).
Let me now return to Shaviro’s discussion of absence and the image in order to refine
our understanding of the empty body. Referring to previous arguments regarding
absence and the image, Shaviro states that
What is usually attacked is the emptiness and impotence of the image, and its inability to support the
articulations of discourse or to embody truth. Images are condemned because they are bodies without
souls or forms without bodies. (Shaviro 1993: 16)
For many theorists then, images are associated with notions of impotence and
emptiness. Shaviro’s argument recalls my earlier observations regarding the limp and
empty body. Like the image, the limp body is unable to support, or more pertinently, be
supported, by the ‘articulations of discourse’ be they institutional, social or those of
love. Moreover, like the empty body, ‘images are condemned because they are bodies
without souls or forms without bodies’ — something we see clearly in Dewaere’s later
roles. The image is always a simulacrum – never the actual object. It is always a false
and empty truth, just like the ‘empty body’, which, in the face of helplessness and
despair, is left devoid of a sense of identity and selfhood. The onscreen body therefore
308
experiences intrinsic emptiness even before the stylisation of the body (to refer back to
Butler154) begins.
By identifying the links between the image and emptiness, we begin to comprehend the
profundity of the limpness and subsequent emptiness of Dewaere’ star body in Un
Mauvais fils and Beau père. In the discussion that follows we shall trace the ‘lost
presence’ felt within Un Mauvais fils and Beau père. In order to do this I shall break
both films up into what I consider to be their clearly distinct parts or acts, beginning
within Un Mauvais fils.
Un Mauvais fils
I have divided my analysis of Un Mauvais fils into four parts. Each of these acts
represents a different stage in Bruno/ Dewaere’s relationship with social-death. These
distinct acts mirror the four stages that Bruno goes through prior to reaching his
eventual rehabilitation. Each act tracks the developing phases in his social relationships
(namely with his father, his boss, his friend and his lover), which define the
configuration of his body and his identity at every stage of their evolution.
Part One
This first section of the film deals with Bruno’s return to France, to his father and to the
memory of his mother. In the opening sequence of Un Mauvais fils Bruno arrives at the
airport where he is met by police. A key detail emerges straight way as Bruno
disembarks the plane. Unlike every other male passenger who arrives, Bruno is not
154
[G]ender is instituted through the stylization of the body and, hence, must be understood as the
mundane way in which bodily gestures, movements, and enactments of various kinds constitute the
illusion of an abiding gendered self’ (Butler 1988: 519)
309
wearing a tie. Immediately, Bruno thus lacks a key sartorial signifier of masculinity.
Moreover, since the tie is often the signifier of conformity or of the institutional body
(ties are often key features of uniforms), Bruno is instantly marked as an outsider. Not
only does this separate Bruno from the other passengers, but it also separates him from
the police, who also wear ties. We later notice that the absent tie also distances him
from his father, who wears one when they go out to dinner to celebrate Bruno’s return.
The absent tie can be seen as a signifier of Dewaere’s limp body, in that it reveals the
lack of structure to his identity (he is distanced from dominant forms and discourses of
masculinity), his vulnerability (his neck is left exposed) and his exclusion (he is distinct
and separate).
What we also notice in this scene is Bruno’s lack of verbal communication with the
police. When Bruno is first met by the officers he communicates with them solely with
minute physical gestures such as raising his eyebrows or nodding in recognition.
Bruno’s inarticulacy is magnified further when they begin to process his identity papers.
As the policeman goes through Bruno’s identity, it is the former who speaks - Bruno
does not volunteer any information about himself until the policeman questions him on
his parents’ identity. Since Bruno is unable to assert himself independently within this
identity ‘test’, or engage with institutions (the police), we thus see that Bruno has
effectively ‘lost’ his place in society. This is further illustrated by Bruno’s lack of home
address in France (we learn that the address he has for his father is out of date). A lack
of home signals an uncertain and insecure identity, since ‘dwelling and the home are a
key element in the development of people sense themselves as belonging to a place’
(McDowell 1999: 72). Bruno is therefore immediately alienated from the space/ place
he returns to.
310
In this sequence, we thus already see Bruno struggling to assert his identity and his
sense of self – indicating the first signs of an empty body. Bruno’s verbal reticence in
this scene brings us back to Shaviro’s suggestion that absence points to a ‘lost
presence’. In this instance the ‘lost presence’ is Dewaere’s earlier verbal performances,
which included his manipulation and proliferation of words at the Café de la Gare
(where he wrote scripts and sketches), and his earlier film roles such as Marc in La
Meilleure façon de marcher. We recall that in this film, Marc asserts his dominance
over Bouchitey’s character by verbally bullying him (thus assuming power through
language).
Returning to Un Mauvais fils Bruno’s lack of language in this scene puts him in
fundamental conflict with the laws of sexuality and gender. By refuting language (albeit
out of fear and alienation), Bruno denies the Law of the Father, which he should, in
theory, perpetuate and follow. Hayward explains why language is associated with the
Law of the Father:
The Symbolic Order or the Law of the Father is […] according to Lacan, based in language […]. In
obeying this Law, the male child enters into the Symbolic and adopts a speaking position that marks him
as independent from the mother. He conforms to the patriarchal law, upholds it and seeks to fulfil his
Oedipal trajectory by finding a female other (other than his mother). He thus perpetuates patriarchal law
for generations to come – he follows in the name of the father, so that when he says ‘I’ it comes from the
same authorized speaking position as the language of the father. He becomes subject of the Symbolic
(that is, he can speak as subject of the patriarchal language). (Hayward 2000: 379)
Given that Bruno does not speak his own name, he fails to follow in the name of the
father and, or to perform his language. Consequently, he does not differentiate himself
from the (m)other and he disobeys the Law of the Father. As such he does not ‘speak as
311
a subject of the patriarchal language’, and becomes ‘un mauvais fils’ (a bad son).
Bruno’s position and identity within the Symbolic is thus rendered unstable.
The limp and the empty body emerge more clearly when Bruno is brought into direct
contact with his own father, René. When Bruno originally arrives at his father’s house
René doesn’t utter a word and briefly hesitates before stepping aside and letting his son
in. From the very start Bruno is thus controlled by the actions of his father. When the
pair go out for dinner that evening Bruno is undermined by his father who insinuates
that Bruno’s time in jail was easy. When confronted with this criticism we begin to see
Bruno’s limp body. As it does on several occasions during the film, the camera stays on
Dewaere for a prolonged period in order to fully capture his character’s despondency at
this attack, which manifests itself silently through the actor’s body. Having left the
restaurant Bruno cautiously asks his father about the circumstances of his mother’s
death (who died of a drug related heart attack). René interrupts his son and anticipates
his questions, thus positioning Bruno in silence (and outside the Symbolic). As René
describes his wife’s death, he links it directly to Bruno’s departure to America. Bruno’s
shocked silence once again positions him in an unstable place. The fragility of Bruno/
Dewaere’s body is accentuated by his position in the half-light of the room, which
renders him even paler than usual.
Once René has finished telling Bruno what happened, he reaches into a cupboard, pulls
out some blankets and drops them onto the sofa, stating ‘tu n’as plus besoin de rien?’.
René’s question is, in reality, a closed one. Instead of asking if Bruno needs anything,
René instead asks ‘you don’t need anything else?’ (literal translation), which if
understood as a statement (instead of a question) could be interpreted as ‘you won’t
have anything more from me’. René is not merely asking if his son needs anything in
312
the way of blankets etc, but rather he is stating that he has nothing more to say in
relation to Bruno’s mother’s death and that, at least for the time being, he has nothing
more to give him. As a result
René controls Bruno’s
knowledge of his mother, and
thus reaffirms the already
very strongly asserted (since
the beginning of their
FIG 29: Bruno/ Dewaere’s empty body in Un Mauvais fils
(Sautet, 1980).
meeting) Law of the Father.
We recall that at the moment of the Oedipal crisis ‘the father splits the dyadic unity
between mother and child and forbids the child further access to the mother and the
mother’s body’ (Moi, 2002: 97). Here, with that rhetorical question, Bruno’s father does
precisely the same.
In response to René’s words we see Bruno’s empty body emerge. Bruno is rendered
impotent by his father’s dominance in this scene. A shadow is cast over the right hand
side of his face and he stands planted by the entrance of the flat whilst his father moves
around talking. Bruno’s skin becomes increasingly pale and sweaty as his father’s
monologue continues. In addition his eyelids sag lower and lower and his eyes appear
even more sunken – withdrawing signs of life. When René asks him ‘you don’t need
anything else?’ Bruno’s response is muted and he only manages a slight degree of
movement in recognition. Once René leaves the room, Bruno is left standing motionless
for several long seconds before he exits the flat. Bruno is overwhelmed by ‘helplessness
and despair’ and ‘all that remains is [his] “empty” body’ (Hallam et al 1999: 18)
313
It is worth noting that Sautet deliberately manipulated his use of camera work in the
film in order to complement Dewaere’s performance and reduce his movement. He
stated that ‘I decided to to film in a very pure way. I did a lot of shot where he
[Dewaere] didn’t move, which didn’t happen all that much in his other films’ (Sautet
quoted in Maurin 1993: 218). Sautet’s observation that stillness was not a quality
associated with Dewaere prior to Un Mauvais fils draws our attention once again to the
‘lost presence’ inherent to Dewaere’s performances in his 1980s films (the lost presence
in this instance being his former exuberance and vitality).
Sautet’s long, stable medium shot in this scene draws our attention to a further ‘lost
presence’ in Un Mauvais fils, his moustache. Shortly before the shoot for the film
began, Dewaere lost the apparent protection of his trademark moustache. For Austin the
moustache has a significant role to play in the construction of Dewaere’s star body —
an absence, to pick up on Shaviro, made palpably present:
On display throughout the seventies, Dewaere’s moustache is a display of romantic bravado that conceals
the insecurities of his characters (and of the actor himself). As Claude Sautet reported when he cast
Dewaere for Un Mauvais fils in late 1979: “I thought of that damned little moustache that he had been
parading for years like a flag, a superstition, a defence against his fragility […]” […]The modification of
Dewaere’s star image enacted by the loss of his moustache and by his role in Sautet’s film was to prove
damaging. (Austin 2003b: 83)
Understood in this way, when coupled with the helplessness and despair projected by
Bruno, the absent moustache draws our attention closer still to Dewaere’s delicately
pale skin and compounds the mutability and fragility of his star body.
Following this exchange with his Father, Bruno exits the flat and walks along a
crowded street, with his head down. He soon comes across a street demonstration
314
against unemployment. This is one of the many references made to the socio-political
environment of France in 1980. In this respect Un Mauvais fils is consistent with
Dewaere’s other films of the early 1980s in which his star body becomes an
embodiment of the social. In this particular sequence, when Bruno comes across these
protesters, we remark that although he shares the suffering of the protesters (through his
own lack of stable employment), he is represented as separate and detached. Bruno
walks through the crowd in a different direction to theirs. As a result we are made to
feel that Bruno is not only isolated from mainstream society, but he is also excluded
from those who share a similar experience – causing a double exclusion to take place.
We recall that this failure to ‘to exist as an active agent in the ongoing social world’ of
those around him, is a symptom of a social-death (Mulkay quoted in Hallam et al 1999:
43).
This marginalisation is compounded in the following sequence when Bruno encounters
a man at a bar and he tries to offer him a drink. Bruno insists but the man rejects his
offer gruffly and walks out in order to get away from him. Bruno is left hunched, staring
down into his drink, reflecting the posture he adopted shortly before with his father.
Once again, Bruno’s deflated body and his unsuccessful attempts to socially ‘interact’,
reveal a limp body.155
Shortly after this incident, René attacks Bruno about his past as they sit at the dining
table in René’s flat. René calls his son a ‘pourriseur’ (corrupter). ‘Pourri’ can also mean
155
This incident perhaps serves as a reminder that by the 1970s the French café/bar had lost the protective
quality it once had as a ‘masculine’ space. As I noted in Chapter 2 this is a point raised by Vincendeau in
her discussion of Gabin and his relationship with space (Vincendeau, 2003: 218). We recall that
Vincendeau notes that feminine influences are banished from the masculine topography, within which
Gabin is situated. She also argues that, until the 1970s, these masculine spaces (which include, for
example, the café-bistrot) remained hermetically sealed. What we see in Un Mauvais fils, in contrast is a
crowded, hostile and anonymous space. This of course also contrasts with Sautet’s earlier films in which
the café-bistrot is frequently a familiar meeting place where closely linked male friends interact (see for
example in Vincent, François, Paul et les autres).
315
rotten, and is often applied to a corrupt and rotting society. Insulted by this comment,
and his father’s insinuation that had he not been stopped he would have continued to
deal drugs, Bruno leaves the flat in anger. Bruno goes straight to a prostitute, the
implication being that he seeks love and affection from strangers since he cannot find it
in René, an action that highlights the severity of the division that exists between father
and son. This act also constitutes a sexual emptying out of the body, made more
poignant by the fact that it occurs in an anonymous space and upon an anonymous
body. In terms of representation, this is counter to the Oedipal trajectory, which of
course constitutes a search for fulfilment via union with the female other. In contrast,
for Bruno, there is no fulfilment – only an emptying out.
The final incident which occurs in Part One of the film compounds the tensions that
exist between René and Bruno and exposes the emptiness of the latter’s body. The pair
go out to a bar to celebrate Bruno’s first pay cheque. But the evening deteriorates when
Bruno attempts to set him and his father up with two small time prostitutes. René
accuses his son of ‘being a pimp now’ and leaves him in the bar. Bruno follows his
father outside into the pouring rain. As Bruno stands, drenched, René accuses him of
killing his mother through neglect. René then shouts ‘Je ne peux plus voir ta tête. Je ne
peux plus’. This statement of course reminds us of the incident mentioned earlier when
René asked/ stated the closed question ‘tu n’as plus besoin de rien?’, which I interpreted
as ‘you won’t have
anything more from
me’. Both
statements convey
rejection and
exclusion, however
FIG 30: The limp and empty body coincide in Un316
Mauvais fils (Sautet,
1980)
the former ‘I can’t stand to see you anymore. I can’t anymore’, suggests a new depth to
these sentiments. This, coupled with his father’s claim that Bruno was to blame for his
own mother’s death, leaves Bruno it seems entirely without hope and in a state of
profound despair – factors which, as we know trigger the sensation of the empty body.
On top of this, Dewaere/ Bruno’s limp, and alternately empty body not only stands
hunched, motionless and speechless, but this time it is also drenched by the torrential
rain. As a result, in this scene the empty and limp body coexist. Directly after this
Bruno returns home (still drenched and limp). In this scene following the initial
patriarchal rejection, Bruno’s body manifests itself as empty as he takes leave of the
patriarchal space. René’s rejection essentially throws his son’s (empty) body out of the
symbolic space and into a position of total lack (emptiness).
Part Two
We might expect at this juncture that Bruno would be overtaken by the emptiness
caused by his father’s rejection. However, what we see instead is that Bruno begins to
construct an alternative, disparate family of sorts which supports him in the absence of
his father and (dead) mother. What we begin to see in this section of the film is, that
whilst Bruno’s physical sense of home still remains unstable, other, often disconnected,
forms of home begin to emerge.
Having left his father, Bruno moves in with his Moroccan workmate, Tailleb (Raouf
Ben Yaghlare) with whom he worked at the haulage company where he was initially
employed. Although Bruno does not know Tailleb or his family and friends well, he
appears comfortable in their company. Due to the cramped conditions of Tailleb’s
accommodation, Bruno shares a mattress with other men. Despite these conditions, and
317
the fact that he does not understand their language, at the breakfast table in the morning
Bruno appears relaxed and happy. During the course of the film Tailleb frequently
takes on the role of brother (he in fact calls Bruno ‘mon frère’), offering him food,
shelter and even the possibility of employment.
Shortly after this scene Bruno is brought into contact with a further component of his
surrogate family, the bookseller Dussart, who takes on the role of the ‘good’ father (le
bon père). Bruno goes to work in the bookshop, having been referred there by the
Department of Mental Health.156 Just as at Tailleb’s, Bruno is invited to share a meal
with Dussart’s extended family (his partner Carlos and his employee Catherine with
whom he subsequently starts a relationship). Once again, it is made clear that Bruno
feels comfortable and at ease in their company (his skin is dry, his eyes are wide open
and he smiles).157
Seemingly spurred on by the generosity of his new surrogate family, Bruno returns to
see his father. He enters into his father’s flat unannounced one morning, carrying a
peace-offering of croissants, perhaps hoping to emulate the communal ‘feasts’ he has
enjoyed with Dussart and Tailleb. However, this happy reunion is not possible, and the
meeting instead deteriorates into violence. Bruno is unable to find René in the living
space of the flat and thus opens the bedroom door. Lying naked on the bed are René and
Madeleine (his dead mother’s friend). We could say that at this moment Bruno
witnesses the primal scene, the moment at which the child witnesses his mother and
At this point we are reminded of Dewaere’s embodiment of the social. Although the interview is
ostensibly to discuss his mental health, Bruno feels that his problems are not linked to psychological
instability, but rather to his inability to find permanent employment.
157
We note that in contrast with this, during the occasions on which Bruno and René eat or drink together
(traditionally family activities), conflicts and confrontations arise between them (see the examples already
mentioned above, plus the unsuccessful breakfast that Bruno, René and René’s lover have shortly after
this scene).
156
318
father having sex together (Thurschwell 2000: 67)158. In response to the revelation,
both of the primal scene and of René and Madeleine’s affair, Bruno is shocked, but
slightly amused (he smirks as his father tries to justify himself). However, once
Madeleine reveals that the affair started before his mother’s death, Bruno becomes
indignant, claiming that his father has unfairly blamed him for his mother’s death,
suggesting that he had also indirectly pushed her to it as a result of the affair. To a
degree then the primal scene is revealed in two ways, firstly through what Bruno sees,
and secondly through what he hears (Madeleine’s confession). It is at this second stage
of revelation that Bruno experiences most trauma. And for the simple reason that his
father compounds his rejection of his ‘mauvais fils’ (bad son). In order to reinforce the
boundaries breached by his ‘mauvais fils’ (bad son), René once again adopts the role of
the punishing and restricting father and asks ‘In the name of what do you speak to me
like that? What right do you have? Who are you? Who asked you to come back?’. With
these words René questions Bruno’s identity on several levels. He reinstates his
authority, undermines Bruno’s very sense of self (who are you?), and suggests that
Bruno is unwanted (who asked you to come back?). René’s words empty out Bruno’s
body of all hope, and disengage him from the identity of his family.
As Bruno leaves the building and walks out on to the street, the limp body reappears as
he steadies himself against a lamppost (we recall that the limp body is one without
structure to hold itself up – in this case the structure of identity and the family). Bruno
then returns to his and Catherine’s flat, and splashes his face with water whilst standing
staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. The wetness of his skin here maintains
the image of the limp body. As Bruno stares at his reflection, he clutches the glass shelf
above the sink. We recall, after all, that our mirror image is one that resonates with
158
It is important to note that although this incident resembles the primal scene moment, the child in this
equation would normally see without being seen (Hayward 2000: 3), whereas here Madeleine and René
almost instantly discover Bruno.
319
incompleteness in that it signals our disunited self. The shelf subsequently breaks in his
hands – such is his distress at seeing his own reflection.
Part Three
Following this rejection from the father, Bruno once again returns to his Moroccan
friend for support. Whilst the ostensibly centralised institution of the family provides
Bruno only with trauma and rejection, apparently marginal figures such as Tailleb and
Dussart offer Bruno the opportunity to re-enter the so-called centre through a proto
example of the institutional, namely the family and employment. When Bruno meets
Tailleb following this last altercation with his father, Tallieb calls Bruno his brother and
once again offers him food. In addition, the Moroccan friend informs him that there is a
job available with a cabinet-maker. We later see that it is this job that will prove to be
Bruno’s salvation. Tallieb thus provides Bruno’s empty body with fulfilment and
sustenance (as indeed Dussart does before him).
Despite the strong and positive influence of these surrogate family members, Bruno’s
father remains omnipresent. On a daytrip to the seaside with Dussart, Carlos and
Catherine, Bruno is brought back into contact with his father and his past when he visits
André’s house, a friend of his father’s with whom they would often stay. Standing in
André’s dining room, Bruno touches a table that his father lovingly created during his
holidays there. As a result of this encounter, the signs of Bruno’s limp body re-emerge
(he is silent and his head droops down, staring at the table). It is worth noting here that
Mado Maurin, Dewaere’s mother, plays André’s wife in this scene. Dewaere was
unhappy with his mother’s inclusion in the cast, but according to Loubier, the pair did
briefly reconcile after the shoot (Loubier 2002: 279). As a result of Maurin’s presence,
320
the scene arguably resonates with the trauma that Dewaere himself experienced at the
heart of his family (particularly in relation to the presence/ absence of his mother and
father discussed in Chapter Three). Shortly after this encounter, as the group walk along
the pier, Bruno strips off and jumps naked into the icy sea, bringing his body once
again, we fear, to a limp state. However, instead, Bruno is rejuvenated and proclaims
how good he feels. This incident suggests that Bruno might still survive, and escape
either a social or physical death.
Before this can happen, however, Bruno is forced to a new low within his relationship
with his father. Back in Paris, Bruno is informed that several weeks before, his father
had an industrial accident and has broken his hip. It is revealed that the reason he had
not found out sooner was that his father had erased him from the next of kin list. In this
act, René literally eradicates his son Bruno from his family and denies Bruno’s identity,
thus casting out the prodigal son of the title (mauvais fils/ bad son). The effect is such
that Bruno returns to the empty body in the most extreme manner witnessed so far. On
receiving this news Bruno’s head drops and his voice falls, becoming shaky. What
occurs next is the failure of Bruno’s body project, in that he begins to lose both physical
and mental control of his body. Bruno stands in metro train, with his head hanging
down, and his face pallid, his faltering body and voice signalling the reappearance of
the limp body. This physical deterioration reaches a crescendo when, as Bruno walks
through the metro tunnel, he gradually weakens to the extent that he is forced to steady
himself, before vomiting against the wall. As he brings his head up we see that his face
is drenched in sweat and that his eyes are red. At this moment, the limp body once again
merges with the empty body, as Bruno is physically unable to handle the despair of his
situation, he literally empties himself out.
321
Bruno continues to ‘empty himself out’ by returning to heroin use, removing himself
from society and thus executing his own social-death. We learn that Bruno has
deliberately shut down his communication with others (ignoring Dussart’s calls, closing
the shutters to the flat and avoiding his place of work). When Dussart arrives at the flat
(he asks the caretaker to let him into the flat because Catherine and Bruno are too
subdued by heroin use to respond to his persistent hammerings on the door), we see
Bruno on the bed, slumped against the wall in a darkened room, with just a single light
to highlight their pale and drawn out bodies. The mise-en-scène functions symbolically
here to illustrate the aftermath of a psychic death, which occurs, we recall, when the
individual has withdrawn the self totally from society and is totally desensitised – a
psychic death which is a manifestation of social-death.
Part Four
Dussart’s (le bon père/ the good father’s) intervention at this moment in Bruno’s freefall
sets about a chain of events that allows him to avoid a permanent social death. Dussart
brings both Catherine and Bruno to the realisation that they need to break the cycle of
their current lives. Catherine returns to her rehabilitation programme and Bruno sets
about reconstructing his own identity, through his work and through a conscious
decision to rebuild his relationship with his father. Following Catherine’s departure for
treatment, we return to Bruno’s place of work, where he has successfully returned.
Despite our expectations that Bruno’s cycle of failure and rejection will recommence
(as it has previously done earlier in the film), his boss offers him a permanent contract,
which will bring him out of illegitimate employment, and thus out of a marginalised
position. We know that during the 1970s, France’s industries became increasingly
322
automised, and that as a result young people became more and more alienated from
industrial professions (Magraw 1992: 85). McDowell argues that this had a specific
effect on gender identities during this period:
As manufacturing jobs for unqualified young men have almost disappeared in particular regions of the
industrial West, the opportunity for these men to develop that characteristic working-class masculinity –
built around shared risks and hardship at work and communal solidarity […] has vanished with them.
(McDowell 1999:124)
It is thus particularly poignant that Bruno’s successful acquisition of permanent work is
within the artisan trade of cabinet making. This resolution for Bruno is also a sign of a
certain kind of optimism on the part of Sautet which, unlike the rest of the film, is at
odds with the bleak socio-political context of France during 1980 (the year that Un
Mauvais fils was produced and released).
Bruno’s next step away from social-death occurs in the following scene as we watch
him tidy Catherine’s flat and prepare for his departure from it. Unlike in Série noire
when Dewaere’s character manically cleans and sanitises his house after his wife,
(Jeanne) leaves, in this scene Bruno appears to be setting things in order in readiness for
a return. Whereas Frank/Poupée masks over the scent of Jeanne’s residual presence with
room spray, Bruno carefully places Catherine’s shoes and clothes in the wardrobe. In
contrast with Frank/Poupée’s attempt to eradicate his wife, first through cleaning and
finally through murder, Bruno does not violently remove the female other from his life,
but rather structures his life around Catherine, an action that signals the promise of
fulfilment.
323
Having begun to reorder his life, Bruno then moves into an hotel and attempts
reconciliation with his father. Bruno watches as his father leaves hospital with
Madeleine. We first see
this via Bruno’s point of
view, the camera then
focuses on Bruno –
filtered through the glass
window of a café. Via this
FIG 31: The empty body in Part One of Un Mauvais fils (Sautet,
1980)
window, we see
Madeleine and René’s reflections transposed upon Bruno’s body. In one sense, since
their reflections break up the singularity of Bruno’s own body, the shot could be
interpreted as an expression of the latter’s broken (i.e. damaged) subjectivity. However,
in another way the image could be read as an articulation of Bruno’s rehabilitated self.
In order to make this point clear it is worth comparing this shot with an earlier image
which occurs when Bruno visits Madeleine on his return from America (see Fig. 31
above). Bruno stands outside the dry cleaners where she works, his reflection cast on
the window. This shot causes his body to appear translucent and therefore ghost-like.
This effect reinforces the signifiers which have already pointed towards Bruno’s empty/
limp body at this stage in the film. By way of contrast when Bruno observes his father
and Madeleine, it is he who takes Madeleine’s position (i.e. he stands behind the glass
whilst their bodies appear as reflections). The significance of this shot is thus that it
expresses the reformation of Bruno’s identity that takes place in this fourth and final
part of the film.
324
This point is reinforced
when Bruno pays a visit
to Madeleine, tracking
her down in a café.
Interestingly, at this
stage Sautet chooses to
FIG 32: The reasserted masculine self?
use a point of view shot, from Bruno’s perspective, as he approaches the café. Earlier in
the film we largely viewed Bruno through prolonged, static, medium shots, which
objectified his limp and/ or empty body. In contrast, the POV shot signifies the new
found mobility of Bruno’s body and its movement away from social-death. In addition,
rather than representing Bruno (and thus Dewaere’s) body as other, the POV shot
allows us to identify more strongly with Bruno’s experience. Arguably, prior to this
moment, Dewaere/Bruno’s body was represented via performance, and the static use of
close-ups and medium shots were in essence too disturbing and corpse-like for the
spectator to identify comfortably with it. Now, however, during his conversation with
Madeleine, Bruno is drawn forwards towards a reconciliation with his father and is
pushed away from the empty/ and or limp body of before. Madeleine serves a vital
function in that she allows him to understand the characteristics he shares with his
father (forced self-reclusion and a fixation on his mother). This revelation causes Bruno
to realise that he could end up like his father if he avoids reconciliation.
The final stage to Bruno’s rehabilitation occurs when he goes to visit his father’s flat.
Immediately, it is clear that the division of power between father and son has changed.
His father is now immobile, and stumbles as he goes to the toilet – needing his son’s
assistance. Re-entering the masculine domestic space that has previously been
325
dominated by his father, Bruno no longer displays a limp body. Instead Bruno now talks
calmly and freely (thus adopting the language of the father that had previously alluded
him). Moreover, Bruno’s body displays signs that distance him from the limp body (he
is, for example, clean and his skin is dry). In contrast, his father is dishevelled and he
sweats as he struggles to stabilize himself over the toilet. In this scene it is no longer
Bruno who is represented as socially dead, instead it is his father who comes closest to
this categorisation as a result of his frail body and his removal from society (the failure
of the body project). Bruno challenges René’s self-imposed reclusion, and goes out for
provisions for his father. René thus no longer controls Bruno’s actions, nor his speech.
Finally, Bruno telephones Catherine as his father sleeps. We know that Bruno has
stopped writing to Catherine (just as he did with his mother), and assume that he will
repeat the behaviour patterns of both himself and his father. However, instead, this call
demonstrates that his movement away from social-death is complete. When the operator
asks Bruno if the call is important, he first replies no, but quickly corrects himself,
stating ‘yes, it is important’. This exchange suggests that Bruno is finally relinquishing
these behaviour patterns, and confidently using the language of the Father.
The film ends with a shot of Bruno sat in a chair by his father’s bed. This shot would
provide the image for the film’s poster. Paradoxically, however, although, within the
film text, this shot signifies Bruno’s successful movement away from social-death – offscreen the poster became associated with the social-death of Dewaere’s star body. The
film was released in the same week that the de Nussac affair occurred, and the film’s
title was used on several occasions to describe Dewaere or as headline159. In a story for
159
For example, Dewaere gave a highly unsuccessful interview to TF1 news directly after the attack,
supposedly in order to apologise and acquit himself. The interviewer, Roger Gicque introduced the
interview as follows: ‘Le mauvais fils s’est transformé un soir en mauvais bougre. Mécontent des
allusions à sa vie privée publiées dans le Journal du dimanche par notre confrère Patrice de Nussac, il a
réagi avec une violence inexcusable en allant frapper le journaliste chez lui, à son domicile. Un coup de
poing dans l’oeil d’une violence telle qu’il nécessite un arrêt de travail de quinze jours. Alors le
326
Journal Antenne (14/10/1980) on the de Nussac affair160, the poster for Un Mauvais fils
features as a key image within the report. The journalist makes a direct link between the
assault and the release of the film, and a prolonged shot of the poster is juxtaposed with
an interview with de Nussac (who sports a black eye). As a result of reports such as this
one, the release of Un Mauvais fils and the film’s poster were actively associated with
the violent danger of Dewaere’s star body. The danger Dewaere embodied off-screen
(arguably) undermines therefore the positivity of the film’s conclusion and the poster’s
image. Yet, we have to recognise that, whilst in Un Mauvais fils Dewaere’s star body is
ultimately distanced from the empty and limp body, off-screen the star’s performance in
the film has become associated with the social-death that the French press were already
beginning to project onto Dewaere’s star body following the de Nussac affair
Beau père
I would now like to turn my attention to Beau père in order to examine the different
ways in which Dewaere’s star body is represented as socially dead in this film, and how
it might signal a progressive deterioration of his star body between 1980 and 1981. The
way in which I would like to examine the social-death of Dewaere’s body in Beau père
is to focus my discussion on Rémi’s relationship with his piano. I have once again here
divided my analysis of the film into sections, which I hope will clearly demonstrate the
different ways in which the piano reveals Rémi/ Dewaere’s limp and empty body.
Part One
journaliste a décidé de porter plainte’ (Gicquel quoted in Loubier, 2002: 286-7). See also ‘Le “mauvais
fils” a fait un bon mariage’ France soir (17/10/1980).
160
Viewed at www.myspace.com/patrickdewaere, (last accessed 16.07.07).
327
The piano plays a central role in Rémi’s life, in that it provides his income and is
constantly in frame in domestic scenes. In the first flat in which he lives is placed at the
centre of the room. Interestingly, in the second flat the piano is slightly offset, which
matches Rémi’s increasing distance from the piano as a source of income and as a
stabilising factor for his identity. From the outset of the film, the significance of the
piano is made clear to the spectator. It signifies the separation that Rémi experiences
from the rest of society, his impotence and his unstable identity – all symptoms of both
his limp and empty body. The opening sequence takes place in a hotel restaurant where
Rémi works as a pianist. Panning across the restaurant, the camera stops beside Rémi
who begins to address the spectator directly, explaining his experience whilst all the
while playing his piano. He starts by highlighting the anonymity of the hotel,
mentioning its generic features rather than its name or location: ‘It could have just as
easily been Montreal or Zurich or anywhere else. There would have been the same
number of Americans, Japanese and Saudis, the same tired eyes from counting too
many dollars’. To an extent this anonymous space is empty – devoid of signification
and thus identity – qualities which we learn it shares with Rémi. For Rémi goes on to
tell us that he could play anything at all and it would make no great impression on his
so-called audience who simply want him to play as quietly and unobtrusively as
possible. The monologue to camera identifies Rémi with the spectator, but marginalises
him from those around him. Just as they ignore his playing, they also ignore his talking.
Rémi is isolated from their privileged experience. This is seen when the camera pulls
away from its focus on Rémi’s body – making us aware, without warning, that the
restaurant has suddenly emptied. Rémi’s job thus requires him to blend in as much as
possible with his surroundings, without ever actually being a part of them (we shortly
learn that he is very hard up financially unlike the restaurant’s clientele). In this respect
328
Rémi merges into the empty space around him, becoming a body without significance,
an empty body.
In addition, Rémi’s costume also acts as an empty signifier. Although he is dressed in a
tuxedo, as he is on other occasions throughout the film at performances, this is in many
ways an empty gesture. The function of the costume is to mark him out as the
performer, as the person that the (restaurant) audience should look at. However, as we
have seen, he is in fact ignored, thus emptying out the significance of the tuxedo as a
sign of spectacle. The tie (as sign of masculinity) thus has the opposite effect that it has
in Un Mauvais fils. Here it instead functions as a ‘lost presence’. It signifiers the lost
audience (who now
choose to ignore Rémi),
and the loss of Rémi’s
solid masculinity (he is no
longer, we learn, desired
FIG 33: The body as a mise-en-abîme of emptiness
by his partner, nor is he
able to provide for her financially).
Part way through his monologue, Rémi is filmed head on and his face is reflected onto
the piano. This creates a fractured image of Rémi, who appears disjointed. The
reflection on the piano reveals a form of dislocation within his identity, which is clearly
illustrated as the film progresses. The reflection is merely a simulacrum of Rémi’s body
(a body that is already itself a simulacrum since it is a cinematic image). We recall that
the image can only ever be a simulacrum of an object, and that it is thus always
inherently empty. As a result, the broken image of Rémi at his piano resonates with
emptiness. The reflected image within the cinematic image causes a mise-en-abîme of
329
simulacra and therefore emptiness. Thus, in this early section of the film, the profundity
of Rémi’s empty body is revealed.
It is significant that this refraction of the self is projected onto the piano, since, as we
shall see, the piano is a pivotal signifier in the construction of Rémi’s identity and his
economic and social function (or lack of) within society. In this scene, for example, we
learn from Rémi’s monologue that his employment is temporary and that he is desperate
for money (he has only just got the job and is waiting in anticipation for the end of the
week when he gets paid). Indeed, the piano in this scene becomes a metaphor for his
lack of achievement. Rémi explains that since no one listens to him he simply plays for
himself instead. However, he remarks that he is unable to master the songs that he
chooses to play, and adds that in fact, he has never succeeded at anything. This
revelation exposes further signs of Rémi’s impotence (and thus emptiness). This point is
reinforced towards the end of this scene, when Rémi begins to talk bout the romantic
life of a pianist. He says
Who knows what’s going on in the head of a pianist as he fingers the keys, while you sip your
champagne. Perhaps he too is in love, or sad because his wife waits for him, or because she no longer
waits for him. Because she has left him, or because she is going to leave him.
The scene concludes with this last line and leads into Rémi’s failing relationship with
his partner, Martine (which I shall discuss below). The piano thus becomes not only a
signifier of impotence and incompetence, but also one of loneliness (a key characteristic
of social-death)161. It also signifies Rémi’s inability to be ‘held’ successfully by the
It is also worth noting that at this stage in Dewaere’s life he had actively attempted to pursue a music
career alongside his film work. However, as was pointed out in chapter three, his attempt was
unsuccessful and he was deeply hurt by the fact that his friends and family did not endorse his work
(Loubier, 2002: 245).
161
330
discourses of love and sexuality. As such, we once again see the signs of the limp body
emerge.
Following Rémi’s monologue, we cut to Rémi and his partner Martine standing in front
of a mirror as the latter puts on her make-up. In the exchange that follows, the lack of
success within their relationship is aligned directly with Rémi’s lack of success
artistically and commercially as a pianist. For example, Rémi makes a direct
comparison between his failure as a pianist and his inability to please Martine sexually.
He states: ‘I know my music isn’t great. But that could change. It bores people now, but
tomorrow it might captivate them. Things evolve. For example, I used to turn you on,
and now I don’t’. This exchange suggests that sexual and musical failure are
intertwined, thus positioning the piano as a metaphor for the failure of their relationship.
In this scene we again see Rémi’s empty body emerge. Martine’s rejection of Rémi
materialises physically within the latter’s body. Shot in close-up, with his pale skin,
white t-shirt and dejected
expression, Rémi matches
the bleak and empty
whiteness of the bathroom
wall behind him. Here,
Dewaere reprises the
minimalist performance of
Un Mauvais fils, in that his
stillness contrasts with
FIG 34: The empty body and film technology
Martine’s active attempts to
331
beautify herself, change, and find employment (for example as Martine briskly moves
around the flat Rémi remains virtually motionless, moving only to follow her).
In fact, in Beau père, Dewaere’s body is rendered even more immobile than in Un
Mauvais fils, thanks to Blier’s choice of film technology. Dewaere’s lack of movement
and reduced frame are accentuated by Blier’s use of cinemascope. This was the first
occasion that Blier had used this form of film technology (Harris 2001:13). It is perhaps
somewhat peculiar that Blier should have chosen this moment in his career to utilise
cinemascope, given that most of the film takes place in interior, domestic settings.162
Traditionally, particularly within Hollywood cinema, cinemascope has been used to
capture dramatic action and epic landscape.163 In contrast, Beau père is shot almost
entirely indoors and its subject matter is relatively static and without physical drama.
Compare this with original performances by the likes of James Dean which ‘served to
fill the excess space of the Cinemascope frame’ (Maltby 2003: 398). In Beau père
Dewaere’s limp body and stilted performance have the opposite effect. As a result, we
are aware of a dual lost presence (to return to Shaviro). On one level, we experience the
lost presence of the expansive locations and performances that we expect from
cinemascope. On a second level we experience the lost presence of Dewaere’s former
performance style, whose previous exuberance could have actively filled the extended
frame. A further unorthodox feature of Blier’s use of cinemascope (which is seen for
example in the above-mentioned scene), is that he frequently uses the close-up in Beaupère, a shot that was originally used less with the arrival of widescreen (Hayward, 1993:
142). Thus, through the use of cinemascope, our attention is drawn even closer to
Dewaere’s pale, sweating skin, watery eyes and receding hair.
Whereas several of Blier’s earlier films such as Les Valseuses and Buffet froid have sequences which
involve vast landscapes (including beaches, wastelands and gorges), Beau père has very few interior
scenes.
163
For example, one of the original advertising posters for this, then new, form of technology claimed
that “Cinemascope demands a bigger story, more action” (Maltby 2003: 253).
162
332
Blier’s use of cinemascope in the bathroom scene (mentioned above) highlights the
ways in which Rémi/ Dewaere’s body recalls Shilling’s idea of ‘the failure of the body
project’ (quoted in Hallam et al 1999: 46). Rémi’s body is uncared for (signified by his
drooping eyes and his unshaven face), which contrasts with the care taken by Martine to
preserve her image (to maintain the body project). In addition, as I have already shown,
the scene reveals his inability to function properly in society as a result of his lack of
economic and sexual impotence (further signs of his failure to sustain the body project).
Jamet’s (1981) description of Dewaere’s performance in Beau père corresponds with
this analysis:
To this grey, feeble and weak character, never shaven, watery eyes – like those of an alcoholic or a drug
addict, Patrick Dewaere gives a most plausible air. He makes you believe in a character in which there is
no reason to interest one-self with. (Jamet, 1981)
Here Jamet’s description implies that Dewaere’s performance and body reinforce the
characterisation of Rémi as a loser, someone who is limp, uninspiring and unable to find
work. Moreover, the quotation highlights the fact that Dewaere/ Rémi display a body
that is uncared for and that is (self)-abused. Jamet’s observation that Dewaere’s
performance is extremely plausible suggests that he ‘authentically’ embodies the social
and physical failure of Rémi. Consequently, Jamet’s statement implies that, in Beau
père, the lines between star and character are blurred, particularly if we consider
Dewaere’s own contemporaneous physical and social problems.
Part Two
333
In this second part of the film, Rémi’s relationship with the piano and with recorded
music becomes even more complex, particularly in relation to language. When Marion’s
mother is killed in a car accident, Rémi is at first unable to communicate this news to
his stepdaughter. The teenager returns from school and begins to ask questions
regarding her mother’s whereabouts, but Rémi delivers monosyllabic answers and
claims that Martine is at work. During this exchange, the camera focuses in close-up on
Rémi’s face, highlighting his panic and fear. Unable to communicate, he limply hangs
around Marion’s room, lacking the strength to tell Marion the truth. To distract him,
Marion asks him to put some music on. Before Rémi is even able to put the record on,
we hear the piano music from outside the diegesis, the same music which constantly
returns within the film both as diegetic and non-diegetic sound. Here the music, acts as
a replacement signifier of Rémi’s lack of language, and perhaps even for the lost
(m)other (two lost presences: mother [who is dead] and language).
I now need to pause here to extrapolate the role of language as it gets played out
through Dewaere’s body because it is a complex one (one which, as we shall see,
contrasts very strongly with his earlier roles, especially Série noire). Through his
inability to verbally communicate, Rémi fails to find and utilise the language of the
Father. Unlike the Patriarch René in Un Mauvais fils, Rémi is unable to control
Marion’s knowledge of her mother through spoken language. Consequently, Rémi
displays a limp body in relation to Marion (one that is unable to employ the ‘No’ of the
Father).
Unable to speak orally, Rémi decides to write Marion a letter, an interesting substitution
if one considers that, according to Moi (2002: 105), within the Western philosophical
tradition writing has been considered as an inferior form of communication to the voice,
334
since arguably the spoken word allows for a greater sense of unification within the self.
Below, Christopher Norris offers a summary of Derrida’s opinions on the differences
between oral and written communication:
Voice becomes a metaphor of truth and authenticity, a source of self-present ‘living’ speech as opposed to
the secondary lifeless emanations of writing. In speaking one is able to experience (supposedly) an
intimate link between sound and sense, an inward and immediate realisation of meaning which yields
itself up without reserve to perfect, transparent understanding. Writing, on the contrary, destroys this ideal
of pure self-presence. It obtrudes an alien, depersonalized medium, a deceiving shadow which falls
between intent and meaning, between utterance and understanding. It occupies a promiscuous public
realm where authority is sacrificed to the vagaries and whims of textual ‘dissemination’. (Norris quoted in
Moi 2002: 105)
In this summary of Derrida’s thoughts, Norris suggests that Derrida’s view is that oral
expression allows for a greater unification of the self than the written word. The written
word is condemned as unreliable and is seen as a destroyer of the ‘ideal of pure selfpresence’, which Derrida argues is what the spoken word permits. There are clearly
limitations to this understanding of the spoken word (for example if the voice is
recorded or if it suffers interruptions). However, the basic premise that writing destroys
a sense of unity within the self is a useful one. As I shall explain, this is particularly true
of the written letter, as it is in Beau père. The act of letter-writing here substitutes for
the real voice of the author (Rémi). It becomes therefore the sign of an empty body in
that, the letter signifies an absent body or self. Within Beau père this process of
disunion of the self, which occurs during the execution of a letter, is not entirely
straightforward (as we might expect). A series of fractures across the process of
communication (and arguably across the self) take place. Firstly, before Rémi begins to
write, he initially speaks the letter as voiceover, whilst staring at Marion. A second
fracture occurs as he begins to write. Although this is arguably the point at which
335
greatest union between the self, voice and letter occurs, disunion is still present since
Marion does not hear (and is thus unreceptive to) Rémi’s words. The third fracture
within the communication process occurs when the voiceover stops (before we hear the
conclusion of the letter), and as Rémi places the letter on the table for Marion to read,
and calls out to Marion: ‘There is a letter for you’. With this action, he sacrifices
authority and the ‘vagaries and whims of textual “dissemination”’. He in fact distances
himself even further from the letter, and correspondently, himself. The final fracture
occurs when Rémi, leaves the building whilst Marion reads the letter – doubling the
absence of his body from the letter and from the process of communication.
A further point to mention here is that the sedentary art of letter writing is one that is
predominantly associated with the feminine. Thus, not only is Rémi unable to express
himself with the (spoken) language of the Father, he in fact speaks in an address which
is culturally coded as feminine. As a result he fails to comply with ‘recognisable
standards of gender intelligibility’ (Butler 1999: 22), and risks punishment and
exclusion. It is important to note that some critics have re-read this form of writing as a
means of acquiring a form of autonomy and control within ‘the limitations and
constraints imposed by […] society’ (Daybell 2006: 18). However, in the context of
Beau père this is not the case. As I have made clear, Rémi’s recourse to the epistolary
reveals the faltering structures of gender discourses, which fail to hold together his limp
body.
Following the revelation of her mother’s death, Marion is obliged to move in with her
biological father, Charly. In her absence, Rémi’s limp, and then empty, body is
revealed. In a direct to camera address, his friend explains that, after Marion’s
departure, Rémi became completely useless, spending his time loitering in his friend’s
336
shop reading comics. Rémi’s presence in the shop, not working and not spending
money, highlights the dysfunction of his (limp) body within capitalist society (he no
longer spends nor makes money, and neither contribute to nor is supported by its
structures).
Out of desperation, Rémi calls Marion. In an empty street, he calls her from a phone
box that is bathed in artificial light. The expressive mise-en-scène immediately isolates
Rémi and highlights his emptiness, a visual construction which is compounded by the
dialogue (or lack of in the case of Marion) that follows. During the phone call we once
again see the inefficacy of Rémi’s use of language, particularly when engaging with
Marion (the female child, the person whom Rémi should, according to the Law of the
Father, dominate and control through language). Marion answers the phone, but when
she hears Rémi’s voice (whom she resents for allowing her to go and live with her
father), she reacts with silence. Although silence in Rémi’s case is often a signifier of
emptiness and impotence, for Marion it is a powerful mode of communication.164 In
silence, she is able to exert a form of control and restraint, of which Rémi has no
command. Rémi is exposed as desperate and feeble; an empty body without Marion’s
presence. As he himself admits, he is on his own, and she is the only person he can call
on in the night. Tellingly, Rémi states ‘tu me manques’, which means ‘I miss you’, but
when it is literally translated can mean ‘I lack you’. Without Marion (the female other)
Rémi’s body is thus in lack, i.e. an incomplete and empty body.
Let me now return to the piano’s role in the construction of Rémi’s limp/ empty body in
this second section of the film. Following Rémi’s attempted conversation with Marion,
we next see the former back at work in the hotel restaurant. Rémi’s reflection is once
164
This understanding of silence as a source of power was discussed in Chapter Six in relation to
Themroc. We recall that it was established by Hélène Cixous during the 1970s and was explored by
women filmmakers such as Marguerite Duras to great effect (Forbes, 1992: 99-100).
337
again cast onto the piano, once again causing his (self) image to bifurcate. Furthermore,
the same empty signifiers are present (i.e. the indifferent audience, the ‘not so grand’
piano and Rémi’s tuxedo). However, this time the notion of the absent or empty
performer (seen in the first scene of the film) is taken to a new level, since Rémi’s
performance is now even devoid of music, as he has stopped playing. This collection of
signs of course can be read as a mise-en-scène of the empty body. When asked by the
manager what he is doing Rémi explains that he is too sad to play. This corresponds
with Hallam et al’s definition of the empty body. According to their argument: ‘In
circumstances of overwhelming helplessness and despair the self ceases to be. All that
remains is an “empty” body’ (Hallam et al, 1999: 58). Rémi is of course sacked for his
insolence.
Part Three
In this third part of the film we begin to see the extent of Rémi’s dysfunction within a
socio-economic context, and once again, his impotence is played out in relation to his
identity (or lack of) as a pianist. What we learn is that Marion’s body is more efficient
in this context than Rémi’s despite the socio-cultural expectations we might have of a
young, feminine body within capitalist society. When Rémi admits losing his job, it is
Marion who suggests how they will provide for themselves. She proposes that Rémi
teach the piano and that she offer a babysitting service. Although 15 years his junior, it
is Marion who plays a mothering role in the context of their relationship. Indeed roles
are more than reversed, they cross over: Marion now becomes positioned as the
breadwinner – a male construct – and is clearly self-reliant. She regularly provides
Rémi with money and is perceived as more responsible than he is.
338
It is soon clear that she is more successful than Rémi at her respective employment.
Whereas Marion is prolific in her babysitting, Rémi’s attempt at earning an income is
lacklustre. We see Rémi deliver a lesson to the child, but he is entirely vacant and
distant from her. His drooped body is limp; it is silent, unresponsive and unengaged.
This contrasts completely with the following shot, which captures Marion and Rémi sat
at the piano, playing the same piece of music as Rémi’s student, but this time playing it
with vivacity and enthusiasm. It also contrasts with Bruno’s last professional encounter
with the piano when he did not play at all. Notably, as they briefly stop playing, Marion
describes the two of them as a ‘petite association’ (a partnership). We also note that,
cast onto the piano, are their reflections. This time the function of their reflected image
is different to that which is cast by Bruno on to the grand piano in the hotel restaurant.
Here, Rémi’s reflection is matched by Marion’s (the feminine other’s) – thus solidifying
the union/ partnership that Marion describes. What we can deduce from this is that in
this sequence Bruno has (temporarily) ‘filled’ the emptiness of his body with the
presence of Marion.
Part Four
In this fourth part of the film, which follows the consummation of Marion and Rémi’s
relationship, the latter is able to find some work as a pianist, but what we see is that
these positions only serve to further disenfranchise him of his socio-economic power.
This disenfranchisement is compounded by their living arrangements in this half of the
film. Whilst Marion is skiing with her father, Rémi is evicted from the apartment that
they had previously shared with Martine (we might assume that Rémi’s income, whilst
Marion the breadwinner is away, is insufficient to retain it). Their forced removal
highlights the fragility and liminality of their predicament. As we recall, according to
339
McDowell (1999: 72) a lack of home can signify an unstable, or even, in extreme
circumstances, an absent/ empty self.
Even when Rémi is able to find permanent accommodation, it is once again a liminal
space that they occupy – the building is due to be bulldozed in six months. The building
that they move to is situated under a bridge and is isolated from the thoroughfare (thus
marginalising its inhabitants). The house is a grey space that is entirely devoid of colour
and life, and it is clearly deteriorating. Not only that, but it is also a health hazard and
indeed dangerous. We learn that the building suffers from chronic damp and that it is
structurally unsound/ unsafe. Rémi/ Dewaere in fact mirrors many of these
characteristics. Like the building, Rémi/ Dewaere is grey, lifeless and deteriorating. The
blues and greys in the décor are mirrored in Rémi’s clothes, which are drawn from the
same palette. Like the building, Rémi/ Dewaere can in some ways be read as dangerous.
As we have established, Rémi’s limp body fails to implement the Law of the Father and
prohibit incest, thus also failing to protect a vulnerable, bereaved child.165
This accommodation, as I have already begun to suggest, is a reflection of Rémi’s
precarious, and increasingly emasculated, role as a pianist. He finds work in a RightBank tearoom, once again frequented by a wealthy clientele, who, like the so-called
audience at the hotel restaurant, ignore Rémi as he plays. Again, Rémi displays the
empty signs of performance (the tuxedo and the grand piano). However, this time the
humiliation of the empty performance is further compounded on this occasion because
the diners are nearly all women. Rémi clearly feels dejected by the experience and states
in another monologue to camera that he felt like a ‘bloody fool’. The job does, however,
allow him to assume a modicum of self-respect in that he states that he is able, to certain
Off-screen the danger can be found in Dewaere’s contemporaneous public image as violent (as a result
of the de Nussac affair), and as a drug addict.
165
340
extent, to provide for Marion. Consequently, although traces of the empty body still
exist through the empty signifiers of Rémi’s performance, he is able to briefly escape
the limp body (also seen in his temporary resistance at this stage of Marion’s advances).
This limpness of course, however, soon returns. Rémi’s next job is as a pianist at a high
society teenage birthday party. Here, the emasculation of Rémi the performer, which
has grown since the opening scene, reaches rock bottom. The young diners ignore
Rémi’s presence and he is seen as entirely out of sync with them socially, and
musically. Marion herself is at the party, and is encircled by young, admiring men.
When a birthday cake is brought out, the group sing happy birthday, which Rémi fails
to accompany and instead becomes out of sync, finishing one line behind the rest of the
group. As Rémi resumes playing (notably the song that he and Marion had played
together earlier in the film), a member of the party goes to the stereo and puts on a
recorded tape of disco music. The tape stops Rémi’s music mid-song and lures the
diners into another room to dance (including Marion). With this action, a more modern
form of music and technology replace Rémi. As a performer, Rémi is entirely emptied
out of meaning to the extent that he is in fact eradicated by the audience. This process of
eradication is visible on Dewaere/ Rémi’s face, whose pale physiognomy is held in
close-up in order to show his open-mouthed shock and dismay. The camera
subsequently pulls out to show Rémi sat uncomfortably in the corner at the white grand
piano, whilst the older members of the party continue to ignore him. Finally, the hostess
comes over to offer him a plate of food. Rémi however lies (clearly feeling insecure and
emasculated by the experience) and claims that he has a recording session early the next
morning and so can’t stay. It is from this point on that Rémi’s relationship with his
piano deteriorates most rapidly, as he begins to fabricate his identity in relation to it.
341
Part Five
The final part of the film brings Rémi’s relationship with his piano to a new low.
Marion baby-sits for a divorced concert pianist, Charlotte (Natalie Baye), and when the
child is taken ill one night, Marion calls on Rémi for assistance. This encounter brings
Rémi face to face with his failure since Charlotte represents all that Rémi had not
achieved as a pianist. As the doctor arrives and goes into the girl’s room, Rémi is left in
the sitting room and is confronted by the mother’s grand piano. Here he falters, limp
and empty simultaneously, as this piano’s grandness signifies the lack in his own life.
Rémi’s piano is a modest, modern166 upright, which befits his socio-economic status,
his meagre talent and his shabby abode. For Rémi, the grand piano (as we have seen)
symbolises his empty and ignored performances. The grand piano, we can assume is
something that Rémi will never possess. It also therefore highlights the absence at the
core of his (at times) empty body.
By way of contrast,
for Charlotte the
grand piano signifies
her success as a
FIG 35 The overwhelming presence of Charlotte (Natalie Baye)
performer. Later in
the film, Rémi and Marion attend a recital given by Charlotte, where all the signifiers of
a successful performance are present. Unlike Rémi, she plays in a concert hall, where
her audience face her and pay for the pleasure of watching her. Crucially, at the end of
the performance, instead of drifting out without any kind of recognition to the pianist
(as Rémi’s so-called audience do to him), Charlotte is given a standing ovation.
166
The Japanese Toyo upright seen in the film is a piano that was first made in 1948.
342
Consequently, whereas Rémi’s body as a performer signifies absence, Charlotte
signifies overwhelming presence. This is also visible in the décor of her apartment,
which unlike Rémi and Marion’s home is light, warm, colourful and filled with
expensive retro-bourgeois furniture and ornaments. Charlotte’s possessions differ with
Rémi and his ex-partner’s furniture, which are a mixture of cold modernist furniture and
shabby, we assume, second-hand pieces (such as cane furniture). This furniture
therefore lacks the comforting and nostalgic presence that Charlotte’s apartment and its
fittings represent. The contrast between the two spheres is reinforced as Marion and
Rémi walk home in the pouring rain, their ghostly shadows cast on the grey building
behind them.
FIG 36: Ariel Besse and Patrick Dewaere in Beau père (Blier, 1981)
Rémi thus pursues Charlotte in order to obtain the ‘presence’ that she represents, and
escape the absence and emptiness of his existence, a quest that he hopes will lead to his
self-fulfilment. However, in order achieve this perceived plenitude, Rémi first empties
out the last traces of his existing identity as a pianist. When he visits Charlotte shortly
after their initial meeting, he denies ever having played an instrument, and later tells
Marion that he has decided to give up the piano altogether. In the quest for fulfilment
Rémi also renounces Marion. However, he still fails to employ the Law of the Father
343
and the all important ‘No’, as he promises that he will always be available to her
(sexually).
We know that this quest will not be fulfilled. There is clearly a cyclical nature to Rémi’s
trajectory within the film and through his life. In terms of narrative structure, Rémi
moves from one mother figure to the next, causing a repetitive pattern to emerge. In
repetition there can be the idea of no change, of endless sameness, bringing it close to
the concept of a living death (especially if the repetition involves constant revisiting of
traumas). Similarly, according to Bronfen and Goodwin, our desire to return to the
mother is intrinsically linked to death. Here they explain the mother’s significance in
relation to death and return:
As the mother, “woman” is the original prenatal dwelling place; as the beloved, she draws fantasies of
desire and otherness; and as Mother Earth, she is the anticipated resting place. (Bronfen and Goodwin
1993: 13)
Thus a movement towards death can also be read as a return to the mother who
represents within culture the beginning and the end of our lives.
In Beau père the figure of the mother is constantly present. Firstly, Rémi is with
Martine, who is portrayed as the more adult, more responsible person within the
partnership. Even after her death, Marion’s mother’s presence is tangible. Large sized
black and white photos of Martine are placed in each room (she was a model), and they
remain in situ long after her death. Secondly, Rémi moves on, as we know, to Marion,
who although 15 years his junior, plays a mothering role in the context of their
relationship. Finally, once again unsatisfied in his relationship, Rémi leaves Marion and
moves onto a third mother figure, Charlotte. In the final scene of the film, Rémi returns
344
to Charlotte, (having broken up with Marion definitively), and breaks down in floods of
tears, throwing himself into her arms. Charlotte immediately assumes the role of carer
and comforts Rémi, promising him repeatedly that ‘she will cure him/ make him better’.
However, despite this promise, we are warned that Rémi’s cycle of relationships will
continue. Just as Charlotte and Rémi embrace, her daughter emerges in the doorway.
She is filmed in close-up and we see that she clearly focuses on Rémi. By choosing to
end the film with the contemplative gaze of the young girl, Blier implies that the pattern
will repeat itself. Consequently, we assume that the limp and empty body will also
reappear as a result of this constant return to trauma. Thus, Rémi’s cyclical movement
between nurturing mother figures (future or present) provides the pattern of repetition
within Beau père.
Beau père, Un Mauvais fils and hysteria
Repetition and return are also themes visited in Un Mauvais fils. In the case of Un
Mauvais fils, the film’s narrative is in part motivated by Bruno’s desire to seek and find
information regarding his mother’s death, which I have already shown, his father
attempts to prevent. The lost mother is the constant source of friction between father
and son during the course of the film. And, as Madeleine reflects towards the end of the
film, there is a woman stuck between Bruno and René. Thus, in the case of Un Mauvais
fils, Bruno’s search for his mother and for calm and revitalisation, brings him back into
contact with the traumatic moment at which the mother was lost, and brings him into
constant conflict with his father. However, towards the end of the film, we have seen
how in the end Bruno, unlike Rémi in Beau père, succeeds in his attempt to break the
patterns of conflict and trauma, which had previously occurred each time he returned to
the home of the patriarch and the lost mother.
345
This theme of repetition and return links Dewaere’s star body (as represented in Beau
père and Un Mauvais fils), back to hysteria and his, albeit very different, performances
in Série noire and F. comme Fairbanks. In all four films each central character seeks a
sense of plenitude (often through a return to the past), but often finds trauma instead.
Unlike in Série noire and F. comme Fairbanks, Dewaere’s characters in Beau père and
Un Mauvais fils do not seek this sense of pleasure through fantasies that include
multiple narratives and characters (as we would normally expect from the hysteric), but
instead through their respective search for lost or imaginary family members or
partners. In the case of Beau père and Un Mauvais fils, the narrative of return is
powered by the desire to obtain an imaginary past or future (fictional in the case of
Beau père) utopia. In search of this unification (or re-unification), both characters
encounter (or re-encounter) the trauma of death and loss.
Dewaere’s proximity to the theme of death, as it is constructed through mise-en-scène
and narrative, is deeply troubling. We see how, through mise-en-scène, performance,
film technology and language, Dewaere’s characters demonstrate certain features of
social death (namely deprivation of colour, marginalisation, stasis, and linguistic
inadequacy). Arguably, it is Dewaere’s socially dead star body that repelled its
contemporaneous audience. Not only did his body recall the experience of those being
marginalised by mass-unemployment in France at the beginning of the 1980s, it also
recalled, as I explained above, the state of death. Dewaere’s alignment with death
constructs him then as other – as Bronfen and Goodwin explain:
Death is the constructed Other. That which aligns with death in any given representation is Other,
dangerous, enigmatic […]: culturally, globally, sexually, racially, historically, economically. (Goodwin
and Bronfen 1993: 20)
346
Part of the reason for death’s inherent danger is that it questions the boundary between
life and death. A body that is socially dead, such as Rémi/ Dewaere’s, suggests a body
that is part dead, part alive. As I shall now show, by questioning this boundary,
Dewaere’s star body also undermines other boundaries such as gender.
According to Bronfen and Goodwin, the division that culture and society proscribe
between life and death is the starting point of many other binaries that dominate our
society’s construction.
People […] accrue power and control by manipulating and legislating death: by breaking any unity
between life and death, disrupting any exchange between the two, and imposing a taboo on the dead.
Power emerges precisely over this first boundary, and all later, secondary aspects of division – between
soul and body, masculinity and femininity, good and bad – feed off this initial separation that partitions
life off from death. (Goodwin and Bronfen 1993: 17)
Dewaere’s star body, as it is seen in Beau père and Un Mauvais fils, allows for this
‘exchange between’ life and death and thus disrupts the partition that separates one from
the other. In their argument (which draws on Baudrillard), Goodwin and Bronfen not
only identify the importance of the division that exists between life and death, but they
also highlight the way in which this divide is linked to other forms of division, for
example those which moderate gender. As we know the divisions which are set up in
order to control and contain gender identities are of key importance to our
understanding of Dewaere’s star body. Following Goodwin and Bronfen’s argument we
might expect that, given the ways in which Dewaere’s star body troubles the division
between life and death, his body also represents challenges to the binaries of gender.
However, as we have seen this is not true of both films. Whilst in Beau père Rémi/
347
Bruno consistently trouble these boundaries (of gender and mortality) right up to the
conclusion of the film (and, we suspect, beyond) in Un Mauvais fils this is most
definitely not the case. In Un Mauvais fils Bruno distances himself from the limp/
empty body (and therefore social death) by renouncing drugs, by reclaiming his
relationship with his father and Catherine, and by stabilizing his employment situation.
Consequently, by the end of the film, Bruno/ Dewaere re-establishes not only the
boundaries of life and death (by positively looking forward to his future) but he also
reasserts his gendered masculine body.
Conclusion
In both Beau père and Un Mauvais fils, Dewaere’s star body is deteriorating (pallid
skin, absent moustache, sweating brow and thinning hair), however to ultimately
different degrees (as I have noted above). In Beau père Dewaere’s star body does not
display signifiers of virility, but instead brings stable masculine identities into question.
In contrast, in Un Mauvais fils, although for the majority of the film Dewaere displays
similarly unstable signifiers of gender, ultimately he is able to secure his masculine
identity within society. This questioning of masculine identities occurs on a social, as
well as physical, level. As I have demonstrated, in both Beau père and Un Mauvais fils
Dewaere’s star body articulates several (socio-economic) anxieties that surrounded
gender identity during the early 1980s in France. The following comments made by
Blier can be related, to varying degrees, to the two films:
His face, in his eyes, at the corners of his smile, he represented all the failings of society. When he was
comic, he was pathetic. When he laughed, he grimaced. When he opened his eyes they were in suffering.
He had a difficult relationship with the public because he put on screen life as it was. We always resent
people who do not know how to tell beautiful stories. Patrick dreamed of playing Fanfan la Tulipe, but
348
the roles that came to him were lost, and unbalanced characters. He closed himself off in these characters.
(Blier quoted in Ellsen 1982: 27)
Firstly, it is important to note in relation to Blier’s comments that, whereas in Beau père
Rémi is rendered virtually entirely impotent by socio-economic hardship and life ‘as it
was’ (to paraphrase Blier), in Un Mauvais fils Bruno is ultimately able to triumph over
these adversities. Blier’s quotation highlights several further issues. It addresses how
failure and pain are physically inscribed on Dewaere’s star body (across, for example,
his eyes and mouth), causing, in the context of Beau père, irreparable damage to his
virility. In the case of Beau père, and to a lesser extent Un Mauvais fils, the quotation
also underlines how at this stage in his career Dewaere’s star body was aligned not only
with the figure of the loser, but all that is associated with that figure (drug addiction,
unemployment, homelessness, poverty and broken families). As a result, Blier explains
audiences found it difficult to relate with Dewaere. Although, via the character of
Bruno, Dewaere embodies a rejection of these associations at the end of the film, we
recall that that this optimism was tarnished by the negative publicity that accompanied
the film, a factor which led to the perpetuation of Dewaere’s ‘threatening’ image.
Where the two films more readily coincide is in their respective representations of the
socio-political context of France in the early 1980s. By manifesting trauma within their
immediate circumstances, and in their attempt to recapture the past or create an
impossible (in the case of Rémi) utopian future, the characters are consistent with
certain developments in political culture at this time. We recall that shortly after the
release of these two films Mitterrand was elected as president of France. Arguably,
Bruno and Rémi’s respective experiences reflect the plight of young men and women
who had participated either directly or indirectly in the social ‘revolution’ of May 1968,
only to have their hopes dashed by economic crisis and conservative politics. Moreover,
349
Bruno and Rémi reflect the experience of those people who were the victims of mass
unemployment, which took hold shortly before Blier and Sautet began making their
respective films, and which predominately affected young people (Laubier 1990: 116).
Mitterrand’s 1981 election campaign drew attention to this crisis, and projected a
political leadership that was in tune with the campaigns of new social movements (Cole
1998: 164), but which also promised solid assurance based in traditional or past
values167. Bruno and Rémi also look to the past for reassurance, with the latter
undoubtedly fated to continue on his cyclical and unrequited search for plenitude, and
with the former more positively set on a new relationship with his father and a
promising career in an artisan trade. To a certain extent, through his optimistic
investment in the future (and to a certain extent the past), Bruno mirrors the experiences
of young French men and women who invested their hopes in Mitterrand and his
Socialist government. However, unlike the happy conclusion of Un Mauvais fils, their
optimism would prove (as with Rémi in Beau père, in a short few years) to be a
misspent hope.
Mitterrand’s 1981 campaign poster ‘showed Mitterrand against a kind of red, white and blue rainbow
through which the sun’s rays could be seen rising to illuminate a village complete with church and
steeple. It was a far cry from the lurid orange posters of the 1965 presidential bid with his slogan of “A
young President for a modern France”’ (MacShane 1982: 227). Furthermore, Mitterrand’s election slogan
was La Force tranquille (calm strength), which MacShane suggests had the following function: ‘It was
almost as if the radical change proposed in the Socialist Party’s programme would bring order and
stability to the troubled France of Giscard’ (MacShane 1982: 227).
167
350
Conclusion
351
Conclusion
The concept of the knotted star body, an idea that has functioned as a catalyst for my
analysis of Dewaere, was put in place at the beginning of this thesis. By envisaging the
star body in this way I have been able to unpick the disparate threads that intertwine to
form this cultural sign. In the case of Dewaere the threads that I have identified included
the socio-political context of Giscardian France, his mutable gender identity, the stars
he acted alongside and the chronotopes of his life, namely; his relationship with his
family and his estranged father, his collaboration with the Café de la Gare and finally
his life as Dewaere the star. Within Part One and Two of this study I have endeavoured
to find the points of intersection, knotting and overlapping that occurs within and
between these threads in order to form the complex mass that is that knotted star body.
What became clear in Chapters Three, Four and Five, was that within each of these
threads (or chronotopes as is the case in Chapter Three) Dewaere’s on and off-screen
life was inflected with marginality. To recap, my understanding of marginality is
influenced by Higbee’s definition of this term, which conceives it as follows:
[M]arginality reflects a positioning which implies the exclusion from the dominant cultural or societal
norm of those groups or individuals within society who, for reasons of socio-economic status or cultural/
ethnic difference, are perceived by hegemony as a troubling presence. (Higbee, 2001: 7)
Bearing this definition in mind, I sought to nuance this term in relation to gender, and
specifically, masculine identities. By drawing upon Connell’s understanding of
hegemonic masculinities (2005: 77), and Butler’s notion of intelligible and
unintelligible genders I established that, within culture, those masculine identities that
do not legitimise patriarchy, and that do not reproduce the heterosexual imperative are
punished or excluded (Butler 1999: 23-24).
352
In Part Two of this thesis I drew upon five further strands within Dewaere’s knotted star
body (each of which was clearly informed by this theme of marginality): Themroc, F.
comme Fairbanks, Série noire, Un Mauvais fils and Beau père. What we have seen is
that within these texts three further bodies emerge: the carnivalesque, the hysteric and
the socially dead. Each of these represents a corporeal strand within the knot of
Dewaere’s star body. However, as we would expect from the disparate threads of a
knot, at times these various bodies overlap, intersect or contradict each other, in ways
that I will now outline.
In my analysis of Themroc I sought to investigate the ways in which Dewaere’s body
challenged ‘privilege, social rank and prohibition’ (Harris, 2001: 4) in part, via the
intensely corporeal performance style that he had developed through his collaboration
with the Café de la Gare. Within this film, we noted how Dewaere’s body becomes a
mobilising force for evolution and change (albeit only temporarily). As a result of its
intense corporeality and boundlessness, we saw that Dewaere’s performance engages
with Bakhtin’s carnival, which interprets the carnival and the carnivalesque body as a
temporary site of rebellion by the lower classes against the ruling classes by lowering
‘all that is high, spiritual, ideal, abstract’ (Bakhtin quoted in Krutnik, 2003: 14). Within
the framework of Themroc, we saw that Dewaere’s carnivalesque performance,
although coded with marginality, allowed his body to express this quality as a site of
resistance (to paraphrase Higbee [ 2001: 7]). As a carnivalesque body, Dewaere’s
character(s) experience boundless sexuality, desire and gender. We recall that within the
film the processes of cannibalism and sexual exchange allow for a recycling of
Dewaere’s corporeal tissues and sexual fluids, which permit a conception of the body as
being without borders. Here, via the final collective orgasm, Dewaere’s body is
353
celebrated for all its secretions, smells and sensations as an integral part of the body of
the community. Consequently, we saw that as a carnivalesque body, Dewaere’s
corporeality challenged the intelligibility of gender and presented an unintelligible body
whose existence was rejoiced in.
In Chapter Seven, we noted a mutation in Dewaere’s body. In F. comme Fairbanks
Dewaere’s body is no longer closely associated with the collective body, and is instead
increasingly dislocated from society. Using Bronfen’s discussion of hysteria as critical
framework (1998), I suggested that this film manifests the beginnings of Dewaere’s
hysteric star body. As we recall, Bronfen’s analysis of hysteria brings us away from
gendered definitions of loss, mutability and vulnerability (which have traditionally been
coded as feminine) and allows us to speak of Dewaere’s body in those terms. Within the
film, Dewaere/ André’s experience of these three qualities pivots around the star
identity of Douglas Fairbanks, an idealised (and unachievable) form of masculinity. For
André the hysteric, Fairbanks represents a protective fiction, which allows him to
escape the trauma of the present (for example unemployment and failed relationships).
However, since he is unable to successfully enact and perform the codes of masculinity
that Fairbanks displays, the 1920s star ultimately becomes an (un)protective fiction that
leaves André open to renewed traumas.
Having identified the origins or aetiology of Dewaere’s hysteric body in Chapter Seven,
in the following chapter I investigated its development, as it is seen within Série noire.
In F. comme Fairbanks we witnessed a ‘lack of plenitude and completion’ at the heart
of Dewaere/ André’s body, which occurs as a result of ‘the fallibility of paternal law
and social bonds, of identity (the insecurity of gender […] designations), [and] of the
body (its mutability) (Bronfen 1998: 34). All these sources of lack are clearly evident
354
within the film, exposed as they are through Fairbanks’ star body. In Série noire this
lack extends and appears across every facet of Dewaere/ Frank’s existence, namely via
his embodiment of the banlieue (in its emptiness and deterioration), his self-erasing use
of language (the constant employment of different modes of speech, without any sense
of command) and finally his self-destructive relationship with his body (witnessed at
hiatus moments such as when Frank/ Poupée throws himself against the side of his car
and in the way in which his body progressively deteriorates during the course of the
film). These embodiments of lack and self-erasure are compounded by Frank/Poupée’s
continual, yet unsuccessful, enactment of various subjectivities and narratives, which
are performed as protective fictions but which, as with André relationship with
Fairbanks, only ever ultimately bring about trauma. Frank/Poupée’s body is thus
characterised by a constant sense of incoherence and loss.
In Chapter Nine, we once again noted a shift within Dewaere’s star body, as a further
body within the knot emerges in the shape of the socially-dead body. Unlike the jubilant
celebration of Themroc, and the explosive performance of Série noire (and certain
scenes in F. comme Fairbanks), in Un Mauvais fils and Beau père we witness an
implosion of the self. The term ‘social-death’ was used to describe the way in which
certain bodies become disengaged from society. This concept was then broken down
into two overlapping layers: the limp body and the empty body. The term limp body
was used to explain the way in which the socially dead body lacks structure, such as
those of gender, familial bonds, or socio-economic stability. The second term ‘empty
body’ expresses the profound loss that this lack of structure causes, which, in the case of
Dewaere, is cast physically across the body. In my discussion of these two films we
discovered that the two characters’ respective experience of social death differs. We
recall that whereas in Beau père Rémi remains caught in a cyclical pattern of trauma
355
and loss, in Un Mauvais fils Bruno defies the continuation of a similar cycle, and
manages to reassert his masculine identity. Regardless of the narrative outcome of the
film, off-screen Dewaere’s body remained cast as socially-dead , This occurred as a
result of the contemporaneous de Nussac affair, which cause Dewaere’s rejection/
exclusion from mainstream society (via press censorship) and the codification of his
body as violent and out of control.
The example of Un Mauvais fils, which exposes the difficult relationship Dewaere had
with the viewing public, leads me to the final part of this conclusion. Within this thesis
we have encountered a number of spectatorial responses to Dewaere’s various bodies,
which have come mainly from critics and his contemporaries (actors and filmmakers)
such as Blier and Depardieu. Each suggested that Dewaere’s star body projected a form
of alienating marginality as a result of his perceived violence and his embodiment of
socio-economic hardship. I have also drawn upon Dewaere’s own interpretation of his
relationship with the spectator, observing most notably his keen desire to obtain the
approval and approbation of his audience. These accounts do not offer a definitive
understanding of Dewaere’s connection with the spectator. However, when considered
in juxtaposition with his films’ audience figures and the increasingly negative
representation of his star body by the press as a result of the de Nussac affair, we might
make the assumption that his relationship with the viewing public was uncomfortable,
to say the least. The spectator is repelled not only by the pathological behaviour of his
characters (for example Frank the murderer, Rémi the paedophile, Bruno the drug
addict and Marc the sado-masochistic bully), but we are also repelled by the physicality
of his deteriorating, sweating and nervous body. Since we are in many ways repelled by
Dewaere’s body, performance and characterisation, our connection with the star is
thwarted, thus causing severance between spectator and star.
356
This disconnection is compounded by Dewaere’s embodiment of the social traumas of
Giscardian France, particularly in relation to gender. On and off-screen, as we saw in
Parts One and Two, Dewaere embodies the traumatic re-configuration of gender and
sexual identities that occurred during the 1970s. We might therefore conclude that
Dewaere’s body repels, not only via its corporeality, but also via the national trauma
that his body evokes.
357
Appendices:
Appendix I –
Advertisement for Le
Dernier metro (Truffaut,
1980)
Appendix II –
Miou-Miou and
La Dérobade (Duval, 1979)
358
APPENDIX I
Advertising material: Le Dernier metro (Truffaut, 1980)
359
APPENDIX II
Miou-Miou and La Dérobade (Duval, 1979)
La Dérobade serves as a key example of
how between 1977 and 1981 Miou-Miou
began to focus on non-comic films which
told stories of the struggle of the individual.
This period marked another new phase in
Miou-Miou’s career. She was now seen as
an individual star able to carry a film. Thus,
following La Dérobade’s release Paris
Match dubbed her the ‘no. 1 star of French cinema’ (Paris Match, 18 January 1980).
Despite Miou-Miou’s obvious empowerment in certain areas of her career, the film also
illustrates how the representation of Miou-Miou’s sexualised body remained
problematic during this second phase of her 1970s career.
In La Dérobade Miou-Miou plays Marie, a young working-class woman coerced into
prostitution by her pimp boyfriend Gégé (Daniel Duval). The film tracks her difficult
and often violent pathway to freedom, eventually escaping from Gégé and her life as a
prostitute. The film was based on the hugely successful autobiography of one-time
prostitute Jeanne Cordelier. The book was released in 1976 when the plight of
prostitutes was being more widely recognised (Rochu, 17.10.1979). Cordelier’s book
emerged during a period which saw ‘an explosion of women’s writing as part of the
women’s movement’ (Atack and Powrie, 1990: 4). Although not directly associated
with this movement, Cordelier can be seen in relation to the increased exposure of
women writers during this decade.
360
Having been fascinated by Cordelier’s story Miou-Miou was instrumental in the film’s
production. She convinced the producer, Benjamin Simon, (who had bought the rights
to Cordelier’s book) to cast her in the leading role. She also went on to successfully
request that Daniel Duval should direct the film (Prier, 1979: 32; and Arnaud,
28.05.1979).
In their reviews of La Dérobade critics singled Miou-Miou out as the only value of the
film.Reviewers noted that although it was based on the Cordelier’s experience, the film
reduces the original subjective narrative to a series of violent images and leaves out
essential details from Cordelier’s story. As De Montvalon notes in her review of the
film (17.10.1979b), we are given very little explanation for Marie’s reasons for entering
prostitution (whereas in the book it is explained that she did not have a good
relationship with her mother and that her father raped her). Marie and Gégé’s initial
conversations are glossed over by the soundtrack, and thus provide little insight. This
continues throughout the film, and Marie’s relationships with her fellow prostitutes are
also left unexplained and underdeveloped. Once again all personal interaction is
obscured by music. This is compounded by the silence or at best inaudible expression of
her best friend, Manou, played by Maria Schneider. By way of contrast the book
devotes long passages to the prostitutes’ relationships with each other (See for example
Cordelier, 1976: 38 and 58-61). The simplicity and brevity of Marie’s interaction with
other characters contrasts with the film’s violent and protracted sex scenes to which are
not accompanied by music and which, according to one critic, force the spectator to
become a voyeur (Chalais, 1979).
361
Other details were also left out of the film version. Several critics, and most
interestingly a syndicate of prostitutes, criticised the way in which the film left out the
role of the police in prostitution (Le collectif femmes prostitués de Paris, 1.2.80 and
Rochu, 17.10.1979). The syndicate felt that Cordelier should not have condoned this
film which they believed misrepresented prositutes and the author’s original text. Critics
also remarked that the film makes little reference to factors which cause prostitution
(beyond the seductive powers of the pimp) (Dascal, 22.10.1979). The film thus ignores
its socio-political climate which saw high unemployment and the socio-economic
decline of the banlieue (where a large proportion of prostitutes came from). In the
original text, Cordelier not only describes her own reasons for entering prostitution but
also those of her co-prostitutes. Moreover, in the original edition of La Dérobade,
Groult contextualises Cordelier’s story within its socio-political context (1976: 5-14).
Le collectif femmes prostituées de Paris accused all those who had been involved in the
film of being as bad as the pimps, since according to them, it exploited the subject of
prostitution. Prior to the film’s release, Miou-Miou defended Duval’s decision to cut
some scenes:
We got rid of all the difficult scenes from the novel […] No more clandestine abortions, no hospital, no
fights between the girls. (Miou-Miou quoted in Prier, 1979: 32)
To a certain extent then, in her support for Duval’s editorial decisions Miou-Miou
colludes in this problematic representation of prostitution and her character’s sexuality.
However, there is evidence to suggest that her original intentions for Cordelier’s book
were honourable. We know that Miou-Miou had long been interested in the book, and
wanted to get this important story heard (Girodet, 22.10.1979). Moreover, her interest in
362
the novel was instigated in part by her identification with Cordelier’s experience. MiouMiou stated in interview that:
The destiny of Jeanne - that could have been mine […] I didn’t have to recreate this character, I’ve lived
her. This girl, it was me completely…with my emotions, my sentiments. I am from pretty much the same
background as Jeanne. Me, I got out of it thanks to café-théâtre. Others haven’t had that chance. (MiouMiou quoted in Prier, 1979: 33)
Once again, we are reminded of a key dimension in Miou-Miou’s star persona:
authenticity. Despite the criticism of other aspects of the film, critics praised the
authenticity of the leading actresses’ strong performance and the way in which the she
inhabited Cordelier’s character (Rochereau, 25.10.1979). In this way we might argue
that although La Dérobade is disloyal to the original text, Miou-Miou authentically
represents elements of Cordelier’s narrative through the origins of her body.
Despite the success of her authentic performance, however, she was perhaps in some
respects ‘out-authored’ by Duval. What I mean by this is that Duval had multiple
channels through which to exert his authorial influence over the text. He directed and
starred in the film and adapted its screenplay alongside Cordelier and Christopher
Frank. These roles allowed him to adapt the text according to his own wishes. He
claimed, for example, that by playing Gégé he could better control the character
(Arnaud, 28.05.1979). Duval wanted to accentuate the relationship with Gégé and Marie
(thus obscuring the other contexts of prostitution that critics saw lacking). In one
interview he openly admitted his desire to stray from the original text and stated the
following:
363
I will try, all the while avoiding melodrama, to be true to Sophie, whilst at the same time to show what
she hides from the reader of Jeanne Cordelier (Duval quoted in Montaigne, 13.12.1978).
This quotation from Duval appears to suggest that there was something lacking from the
Cordelier novel. This contrasts with the opinion of critics who felt that Duval had
actually eradicated Cordelier’s voice, not added to it (De Baroncelli, 21.10.1979).
In terms of Miou-Miou’s control of the text it is worth recalling that as an actress her
eventual power over the decision making process would have perhaps been marginal.
As Miou-Miou herself noted in 1977:
Power relations are tiring, particularly when you are a woman, since people don’t let us get away with
anything. You have to be kind, pretty, cute, act well…and that’s all. Just as Dewaere can easily punch an
assistant (that has happened), it is as difficult for a woman to have opinions. Signoret for example has the
necessary weight to do it, but she already has stature; she’s not a gentle, pretty little thing. The physique
is really important in this. I’m not well-built and I’m not very headstrong’ (Maillet, 1977: 23).
Miou-Miou underlines here that both the literal and figurative weight of an actress
counts in the effectiveness of the expression of her opinions, which might have had an
effect on her relationship with Duval or the film’s producers. It also reminds us that
regardless of the way in which Miou-Miou’s star body troubled Dewaere in some film
texts – his physical strength displays dimensions of masculinity that she cannot herself
command. Despite Miou-Miou’s ‘authentic’ performance of Cordelier’s story, in the
overwhelming presence of Duval she would perhaps have been unable to keep the film
text close to its original. However, though the content of La Dérobade is clearly
problematic it cannot altogether eradicate Miou-Miou’s authentic working-class voice
nor can it totally undermine the importance of this film in relationship to emerging
364
female voices within French culture during the 1970s. If anything, with hindsight, it
exposes the problems still inherent in gender power relations.
365
Bibliography
366
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Please note: Those articles acquired at the BIFI (Bibliothèque du film) are not
paginated as page numbers are unavailable
Anon (1970) ‘Confidences d’onze heures’, Le nouveau cinémonde,
http://toutsurdeneuve.free.fr/Francais/Pages/Interviews_Presse6079/Cinemonde70.html.
Accessed 23.07.05.
Anon (1976) ‘Un seul éclat’, Nouvel observateur, 15 January
Anon (1976) ‘La Meilleure façon de marcher …et de bien voir’, L’Aurore, 3 March.
Anon (1976) ‘Miou-Miou’, Cinéma Français, 2, 37-40.
Anon (1979) ‘A nous deux’, Minute, 6 June.
Anon (1979) ‘La Dérobade’, L’Express, 22 October.
Anon (1979) ‘Entretien avec Miou-Miou’, Cinéma français, 29, 26-27.
Anon (1979) ‘Le film de Miou-Miou’, Le Matin, 18 October.
Anon (1979) ‘Question and Answer: Miou-Miou’, Continental film review, 26.12,1213.
Anon (1982) ‘La fin d’un enfant terrible’, Journal du nord, 17 July,1
Anon (1980) ‘Police, le temps des femmes’, Le Figaro, 14 August.
Anon (1980) ‘Lino Ventura’, Cinéma Français, 37, 14-18.
Anon (2003) ‘Pierre Poujade’, Economist, 9 June, 78.
Abitan, Guy (1970) ‘Catherine tout en charme’, Mademoiselle tendre age
http://toutsurdeneuve.free.fr/Francais/Pages/Interviews_Presse6079/MlleAgeTendre70.
html. Accessed 23.07.05.
Alès, Bernard (1982) ‘Sa dernière interview’, Ciné-Révue, 22 July, 6-10.
Alion, Yves (1978) ‘Catherine Deneuve ou le triomphe de l'ambiguïté’, Écran, 73,
1978, 11-25.
Allwood, Gill (1998) French feminisms: gender and violence in contemporary theory
London, UCL Press.
Amar, Marlène (2001) ‘La fureur de mourir’, TéléObs, 28 July, 43.
Arnaud, Catherine (1979) ‘Daniel Duval tourne La Dérobade’, Le Matin, 28 May.
Atack, Margaret, and Phil Powrie (1990) ‘Introduction’ in Margaret Atack and Phil
Powrie Contemporary French Fiction by Women, Manchester, New York, Manchester
University Press, 1-11.
Audé, Françoise (1988) ‘Dérives parlées avec Miou-Miou’, Positif, 331, 12-13.
367
Austin, Guy (2003a) ‘The Life and Death of Star Bodies’, Modern and Contemporary
France, 11.2, 175-187.
Austin, Guy (2003b) Stars in Modern French Film, London, Arnold, 2003
Bard, Christine (1999) ‘Les antiféminismes de la deuxième vague’, Un siècle
d’antifeminisme, Paris, Fayard, 301-328
Baron, Marie-Guy (1976) ‘Dewaere, la tête à claques, a amusé nos invités’, FranceSoir, 4 April.
De Baroncelli, Jean (1976) ‘Docteur Françoise Gailland’, Le Monde,
19 January.
De Baroncelli, Jean (1979) ‘La Dérobade de Daniel Duval: Un sujet trop usé’, 21
October.
Barthes, Roland (1993) Mythologies Paris, Éditions du Seuil.
Benhamou, Anne-Françoise (1980) ‘Deux monstres naissants’ Cinématographe, 61,
20-21.
Berger, John and Tanner, Alain (1983) Jonas who will be 25 in the year 2000, Berkley,
North Atlantic Books.
Raphaël Bassan, Gérard Courant, Christian Lebrat, Dominique Noguez (2004), 'French
experimental cinema: the richness of the 1970s', 4.3, 163-174
Brincourt, Christian (1987) ‘Lino: mort d’un homme’, Paris Match,
6 November, 60-85.
Bronfen, Elisabeth (1998) The knotted subject: hysteria and its discontents,
Princeton, N.J , Princeton University Press.
Bronfen, Elisabeth and Goodwin, Sarah W. (1993) ‘Introduction’ in Sarah W. Goodwin
Death and Representation, Baltimore, John Hopkins University Press.
Bruzzi, Stella (1997) Undressing cinema: clothing and identity in the movies
New York, Routledge.
Butler, Judith (1999) Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity, 2nd
edn, London and New York, Routledge.
Butler, Judith (1988) ‘Performative Acts and Gender Constitution: An Essay in
Phenomenology and Feminist Theory’ Theatre Journal, Vol. 40,
No. 4, December, 519-531.
Chalais, François (1979) ‘Un pari impossible’, Figaro Magazine, 13 October.
Chamaral, Yves (1975) ‘Le coup de foudre de Julien Clerc’, Ici Paris, 5 September, 19
and 20.
368
Chapman, Rowena (1996) ‘The Great Pretender: variations on the New Man theme’, in
Rowena Chapman and Jonathan Rutherford, Male Order: Unwrapping Masculinity,
London, Lawrence and Wishart, 225-248.
Chapter, Henri (1976) ‘Docteur Françoise Gailland de Jean Louis Bertucelli’, Quotidien
de Paris, 11 January.
Chazal, Robert (1979) ‘A nous deux’, France-soir, 26 May 1979.
Chazal, Robert (1982) Gérard Depardieu: l’autodidacte inspire, Renens, 5 Continents.
Chinn, Sarah E. (1997) ‘Gender Performativity’ in Andy Medhurst and Sally R. Munt,
Lesbian and Gay Studies: A Critical Introduction, London and Washington, Cassell,
294-308.
Cole, Alistair (1990a) ‘The Evolution of the Party System’, in Alistair Cole French
political parties in transition, Aldershot, Brookfield, Dartmouth, 3-24.
Cole, Alistair (1990b) ‘The Return of the Orleanist Right: The Union of French
Democracy’, in Alistair Cole, French political parties in transition, Aldershot
Brookfield, Dartmouth, 106-139.
Cole, Alistair (1994) François Mitterrand: A study in political leadership, London and
New York, Routledge.
Cole, Alistair (1998) French politics and society, London, Prentice Hall.
Colebrook, Claire (2002) Understanding Deleuze, Crows Nest, N.S.W.,
Allen & Unwin.
Le Collectif femmes prostituées de Paris (1980) ‘La Dérobade: bidon!!!’, Libération, 1
February.
Connell, Robert W. (1995) Masculinities, Cambridge, Polity.
Copley, Antony (1989) Sexual moralities in France 1780-1980: new ideas on the
family, divorce and homosexuality: an essay on moral change
London, Routledge.
Coppermann, Annie (1979) ‘La Dérobade’, Les Echos, 19 October.
Corneau (1979) ‘Alain Corneau parle de son film’, Cinéma français,
Vol. 27,14-18.
Courtivron, Isabelle de. and Marks, Elaine (1981), New French feminisms : an
anthology New York, Schocken Books.
Craik, Jennifer (1993) The Face of Fashion: Cultural Studies in Fashion London, New
York, Routledge.
Dascal, Georges (1979) ‘La Dérobade’, La vie ouvrière, 22 October.
369
Dehée, Yannick (2000) Mythologies politiques du cinéma français 1960-2000, Paris,
Presse Universitaires de France.
Delbourg-Delphis, Marylène (1981) Le Chic et le look: Histoire de la mode feminine et
des moeurs de 1850 à nos jours, Paris, Hachette.
Depardieu, Gérard (1988) Lettres volées Paris J.C.Lattes.
Depardieu, Gérard (2004) Vivant! Paris, Olivier Orban.
Dicale, Betrand (2001) ‘Roman Bouteille, l’inar et l’alexandrin’, Le Figaro, 11
September, 28.
Dokan, Michèle (1978) ‘Dewaere préfère la musique au cinéma’, France-Soir, 9 May,
21.
Duchen, Claire (1994), Women's rights and women's lives in France,
1944-1968, London, Routledge.
Durieux, Gilles (1974) Unifrance Dossiers Entretien, 486.
Dyer, Richard (1991) ‘Charisma’ in Christine Gledhill Stardom: industry of desire,
London and New York : Routledge, 57-59.
Dyer, Richard and Vincendeau, Ginette (1992) ‘Introduction’ in Richard Dyer and
Ginette Vincendeau Popular European Cinema, London and New York, Routledge, 114.
Dyer, Richard (1998) Stars, 2nd edn, London, BFI Publishing.
Dyer, Richard (2004) Heavenly bodies: film stars and society, 2nd edn,
Basingstoke, Macmillan Education.
Ellsen, Isabelle (1982) ‘Dewaere: C’est son métier qui l’a tué’, Elle,
2 August, 26-27.
Emsalem, Françoise (2002) ‘Nous nous sommes tant aimés’, Premiere, 306, 12-17.
Esposito, Marc (1978a) ‘Au rendez-vous de Première: Patrick Dewaere’, Première, 13,
54-59 and 75.
Esposito,
Marc
(1978b)
‘Entretien
avec
Catherine
Deneuve’,
Première,
http://toutsurdeneuve.free.fr/Francais/Pages/Interviews_Presse6079/Premiere78.htm.
Last accessed 31.10.05.
Esposito, Marc (1981) ‘Miou-Miou au fils du temps’, Première, 48, 24-27.
Esposito, Marc (1989) ‘Il était une fois’, Studio (28), 54-73.
Flacon, M. (1976) ‘La madone de l’hosto’, Le Point, 16 January.
Forbes, Jill (1992) The Cinema in France after the New Wave, Basingstoke, London,
Macmillan.
370
Forbes, Jill (2000) ‘Sex, politics and political culture: Bertrand Blier’s Les Valseuses’ in
Susan Hayward and Ginette Vincendeau, London, New York, Routledge, 213-226.
Fournier, Thérèse (1967) ‘Le secret du héros, Patrick Dewaere (21 ans): il fut enfantacteur sous le nom de Patrick Maurin <<l’Arlésienne>>’, France-soir, 28 December,
34.
Frears, J. R. (1981) France in the Giscard Presidency, London, George, Allen and
Unwin.
Gaffney, John (1990) ‘The Emergence of a Presidential Party: The Socialist Party’ in
Alistair Cole, French political parties in transition, Aldershot, Brookfield, Dartmouth,
61-90.
Gaines, Jane (1990) ‘Costume and Narrative: How Dress Tells the Woman's Story’ in
Jane Gaines, Fabrications: costume and the female body,
London, Routledge, 192-196.
Garsault and Sineux, (1979) ‘Entretien avec Alain Corneau’, Avant scène du cinema,
233, 5-7.
Gauteur, Claude and Vincendeau, Ginette (2006) Jean Gabin: Anatomie d’un myth, 2nd
edn, Paris, Nouveau Monde.
Gauthey, Christine (1975) ‘Enfin, je suis vilain’, Journal du dimanche,
7 December, 11.
Girodet, Marie-Dominique (1979) ‘Christopher Frank ou l’angoisse de se tromper’,
L’Express, 22 October.
Girardot, Annie (2003) Partir venir: les passions vives, Paris, Le Cherche Midi.
Giscard d’Estaing, Valery (1976) La Démocratie française, Paris, Fayard.
Gledhill, Christine (1991) Stardom: industry of desire, London and New York :
Routledge.
Groult, Benoîte (1976) ‘Préface’, in La Dérobade by Jeanne Cordelier, Paris, Librairie
Hachette.
Hallam, Elizabeth, Jenny Hockey and Glennys Howarth (1999) Beyond the body: death and social
identity, London, Routledge.
Harris, Sue (2001) Bertrand Blier, Manchester, New York, Manchester University
Press.
Hanley, D.L et al (1984) Contemporary France: Politics and Society,
Boston et al, Routledge and Kegan Paul.
Haskell, Molly (1993) ‘You Gérard, Me Jane’, Film Comment, 14.2, 23.
Hayes, Graeme (2004) ‘Framing the wolf: Alain Delon, spectacular masculinity, and the
371
French crime film’, in Phil Powrie, Ann Davies, and Bruce Babington, The Trouble
with Men: Masculinities in European and Hollywood Cinema, London, Wallflower
Press, 42-53.
Hayward, Susan (1990) ‘French Politicians and Political Communication’ in Alistair
Cole, French political parties in transition, Aldershot, Brookfield, Dartmouth, 25-41.
Hayward, Susan (1993) French National Cinema, London and New York, Routledge.
Hayward, Susan (1996) Cinema Studies: the key concepts, 1st edn, London and Paris,
Routledge.
Hayward, Susan (1998) Luc Besson, Manchester and New York, Manchester University
Press.
Hayward, Susan (2000) Cinema Studies: The Key Concepts, 2nd edn, London and Paris,
Routledge.
Hayward, Susan (2004) Simone Signoret: The Star as Cultural Sign (London and New
York, Continuum.
Hayward, Susan (2006) ‘Stardom: Beyond Desire’, unpublished paper given at History
of Stardom Reconsidered, University of Turku, 10 November 2006.
Higbee, Will (2001a) Marginality and Ethnicity in French Cinema of the 1980s and
1990s, unpublished thesis, University of Exeter.
Higbee, Will (2001b) 'Yves Boisset’s Dupont Lajoie (1974): racism, civic cinema and
the "immigrant question" ', Studies in French Cinema, 2:3, 147-56.
Houze, Roger (1975) ‘Miou-Miou: Nue, j’ai l’impression d’être très mauvaise’ Cinérevue, 55.48.7, 8-11.
Hughes, Alex, and Williams, James, S. (2001) Gender and French cinema, Oxford,
Berg
Jeancolas, Jean-Pierre (1979) Le cinéma des Français: La Ve République Paris, Stock.
Jive (2006) ‘Alexandre Moix, Dewaere et moi….’, Paris 14 Info,
www.paris14.info/archive/2006/04/08/patrick-dewaere-par-alexandre-moix.html.
Accessed 16.05.06
Jones, Colin (2004), Paris: Biography of a City London Allen Lane.
Jordan. I., and H. Niogret. (1986) ‘Depardieu/Dewaere’, Positif, 300, 45-6.
Josh, Sonali (2006) Jean-Pierre Leaud, unpublished thesis, University of Glasgow.
Katelan, Jean-Yves (1997) ‘Miou ou Miou?’, Première, 247, 80-83.
Knapp, Andrew, (1990) ‘Un parti comme les autres: Jacques Chirac and the Rally for
the Republic’ in Alistair Cole, French political parties in transition, Aldershot,
Brookfield, Dartmouth, 140-184.
Kristeva, Julia (1982) Powers of horror: an essay on abjection, trans by Leon
372
Roudiez, New York and Guilford, Colombia University Press.
Kuhn, Annette (1994) The Media in France, London and New York, Routledge.
Kuhn, Annette (1994) Women’s pictures: Feminism and Cinema, 2nd edn, London and
New York, Verso.
Krutnik, Frank (2003) Hollywood Comedians, London, Paris, Routledge.
Larkin, Maurice (1988) France since the Popular Front: government and people 19361986 Oxford, Clarendon Press.
Laubier, Claire (1990) The Condition of Women in France, 1945 to the Present, The: A
Documentary Anthology, London, Routledge.
Leahy, Sarah (2002) Simone Signoret and Brigitte Bardot: Femininities in 1950s
French cinema, unpublished thesis, University of Exeter.
Le Gras, Gwénaëlle (2005) ‘Résurgence de la comédie à la française dans les années
1970-1980: Les rapports de la persona Deneuve au genre dans Le Sauvage (Rappeneau,
1975) et L’Africain (de Broca, 1983), in Raphaëlle Moine, Le Cinéma français face aux
genres, Paris, Association Française de Recherche sur l’Histoire du Cinéma, 265-273.
Lemoîne, Philippe (1979) ‘Le festival Dewaere’, VSD, 17 May, 47-49.
Lesueur, Véronique (1992) Patrick Dewaere, Paris, Hors Collection.
Loubier, Jean-Marc (2002) Patrick Dewaere: La frayeur de vivre, Paris, Éditions
Michel Lafon.
Lyon, Janet (2001) ‘The Naked Foot’, in Footnotes on shoes, ed. by Shari Benstock and
Suzanne Ferriss, New Brunswick, New Jersey and London, Rutgers University Press,
272-281.
MacShane, Denis (1982) François Mitterrand: a political odyssey, London, Quartet
Books.
Magraw, Roger (1992) A history of the French working class
Oxford, Blackwell.
Maillet, Dominique (1977) ‘Miou-Miou’, Cinématographe, 24, 22-23.
Maillet, Dominique (1980) ‘En privé avec Miou-Miou’, Première, 35, 20-24.
Maltby, Richard (2003) Hollywood cinema, 2nd edn, Oxford, Blackwell Publishing.
Marshall, Bill (1981) ‘National identity and the film policier: the moment of 1981’,
French Cultural Studies, 3,31-42.
Marshall, Bill (2002) ‘The Interregnum of the 1970s: Interplays of Auteurism and
Cultural Transformation in André Téchiné’, Unpublished paper given at
Studies in French Cinema’s annual conference, April,1-5.
Maurin, Mado (1984) Parce-que c’est vrai, Paris, Mame.
373
Maurin, Mado, (1993) Patrick Dewaere, mon fils cet inconnu, Hors Collection.
Maurin, Mado (2006) Patrick Dewaere mon fils la vérité, Paris, Broucé.
Mayne, Judith (1993) Cinema and spectatorship London, New York, Routledge.
McDonald, Paul (1998) ‘Reconceptualising Stardom’ in Richard Dyer, Stars,
2nd edn, London, BFI, 175-211.
McDowell, Linda (1999) Gender, identity and place: understanding feminist
geographies Cambridge, Polity.
Mendras, Henri (1994) La seconde révolution française: 1965-1984, Paris: Éditions
Gallimard.
Merle, Pierre (1985) Café-théâtre, Paris, Presses Universitaires de France.
Moi, Toril (2002) Sexual Textual Politics, 2nd edn, London, New York, Routledge.
Montaigne, Pierre (1978) ‘Daniel Duval: derrière les volets clos’, Figaro, 13 December.
De Montvalon, Christine (1979) ‘A nous deux’, Télérama, 6 June.
De Montvalon, Christine (1979) ‘La Dérobade’, Télérama, 17 October.
Moseley, Rachel (2005) ‘Introduction’ in Rachel Moseley Fashioning film stars: dress,
culture, identity, London, BFI Publishing, 1-8.
Mulvey, Laura (1975) ‘Visual Pleasure and the Narrative Cinema’ originally published
in screen 16:3, autumn 1975, reproduced in Gerald Mast, Marshall Cohen and Leo
Braudy (eds) (1992), Film Theory and Criticism: Introductory Readings, 4th edn, New
York and Oxford, Oxford University Press
Murat, Pierre (1979) ‘Patrick Dewaere: “Le public avec moi!”’, Télérama, 25 April, 923.
Nii, Rie (2005) ‘20th Century: Second Half’, in the Kyoto Costume Institute Köln,
Fashion: A History from the 18th to the 20th Century: Volume Two, Taschen.
de Nussac, Patrice (1980) ‘Avec Dewaere le temps d’aller de Paris à Liège’, Le Journal
du dimanche, 12 October, 15.
Palmer, Tim (2001) 'Jean-Pierre Melville and 1970s French Film Style', 2:3, Studies in
French Cinema, 135-45
Pantel, Monique (1979) ‘L’aveu de Dewaere: <<Après ce role de tueur je ne suis plus
comme avant>>’, France-Soir, 26 April, 20.
Penso, Alain (1981) Patrick Dewaere, Paris, Éditions Pac.
Piccoli, Michel (1976) Dialogues egoïsts, Paris, O.Orban.
Polito, Robert (1997) Crime novels : American noir of the 1950s, New York, Library of
America.
374
Powrie, Phil (1997) French Cinema of the 1980s: Nostalgia and the Crisis of
Masculinity, Oxford, Clarendon Press.
Powrie, Phil and Davies and Bruce Babington (2004) 'Introduction: Turning the Male
Inside Out', in Phil Powrie, Ann Davies and Bruce Babington, The Trouble with Men:
Masculinities in European and Hollywood Cinema, London, Wallflower Press, 1-15.
Price, Brian (2001) 'The End of Transcendence, The Mourning of Crime: Bresson’s
Hands', Studies in French Cinema, 2:3, 127-34
Prier, Pierre (1979) ‘Miou-Miou: Moi aussi, j’aurais pu mal tourner’, VSD, 12 July, 3233.
Raymond, Gino (1990) ‘The Party of the Masses and its Marginalisation’ in French
political parties in transition, ed. by Alistair Cole, Aldershot, Brookfield, Dartmouth,
42-60.
Robinson, David (1973) ‘ “The Hero”, a study of Douglas Fairbanks' Sight and Sound, 42.2, 98-102.
Rochu, Georges (1979) ‘Un sale film sur un sale métier’, Libération, 17 October.
Ross, George, Stanley Hoffmann and Sylvia Malzacher (1987),
The Mitterrand experiment: continuity and change in modern France, Oxford, Polity
Press.
Ross, Kristin (1998) Fast Cars and Clean Bodies: Decolonisation and the Reordering
of French Culture, Cambridge, MA, London, MIT.
Rutherford, Jonathan (1996) ‘Who’s that man?’ in Rowena Chapman and Jonathan
Rutherford, Unwrapping Masculinity, London, Lawrence and Wishart, 21-67.
De Saint-Angel, Eric (2001) ‘L’homme blessé’, TéléCinéObs, 15 October, 16.
Sarde, Michèle (1988) ‘L’Action du ministere des droits de la femme, 1981-86: un
bilan’, The French Review, 61.6, 931-941.
Segalen, Martine (2000) Sociologie de la famille, Paris, Armand Colin.
Servat, Henri-Jean (1992) ‘Mon fils cet inconnu’, Paris Match, 30 July, 52-54 and 63.
Shaviro, Steven (1993) The Cinematic body, Minneapolis, University of Minnesota
Press.
Silverman, Kaja (1988) The acoustic mirror: the female voice in psychoanalysis,
Bloomington, Indiana University Press.
Smith, Alison (2005) French Cinema of the 1970s: the Echoes of May, Manchester,
Manchester University Press.
Smith, Murray (1998) ‘Theses on the philosophy of Hollywood history’ in Steve Neale and Murray Smith
Contemporary Hollywood cinema (London; New York: Routledge, 3-20.
Stacey, Jackie (1994) Star gazing: Hollywood cinema and female spectatorship,
London, Routledge.
375
Stam, Robert (1989) Subversive Pleasures: Bakhtin, cultural criticism and film
Baltimore, Johns Hopkins University Press.
Stein, Harry, (1978) ‘Depardieu: French Primitive’, Film Comment, 14.2,
19-24.
Storti, Martine (1976) ‘Une femme libérée et punie’, Libération, 10 February.
Tarr, Carrie (2002) 'Feminist Influences on the work of Yannick Bellon in the 1970s',
Studies in French Cinema, 3:1, 55-65,
Taylor, Kate (2006) Filming the body: somatechnics in the work of four female
filmmakers, unpublished thesis, University of Exeter.
Thomas, Bernard (1999) Ça n’arrive qu’aux autres: Chronique du Canard enchainé,
Éditions Rocher.
Thurschwhell, Pamela (2000) Sigmund Freud, London, New York, Routledge.
Vallée (1980) Lino Ventura, Solar.
Townsend, Peter (2000) Jazz in American Culture, Edinburgh, Edinburgh University
Press.
Vincendeau, Ginette (2000) Stars and Stardom of French Cinema, New York and
London, Continuum.
Vincendeau, Ginette (2003) Jean-Pierre Melville: An American in Paris, London,
British Film Institute.
Vincendeau, Ginette (forthcoming 2007) ‘Annie Girardot: Reine des années 1970’, Les
Stars et le star-système en France, L'Harmattan.
Wauthier, Claude (1995) Quatre présidents et l’Afrique: De Gaulle, Pompidou, Giscard
d’Estaing, Mitterrand, Paris, Seuil.
Wright, Vincent (1984) Continuity and Change in France, London, Allen and Unwin.
Wright, Vincent (1989) The Government and Politics of France, 3rd edn, London and
New York, Routledge.
376
Filmography
Including Theatre and
Television performance
377
FILMOGRAPHY
Films featuring Patrick Dewaere (in chronological order)
Monsieur Fabre (Henri Diamant-Berger, 1951)
La Madelon (Jean Boyer, 1955)
La Route joyeuse (Gene Kelly, 1956)
En feuilletant la marguerite (Marc Allégret, 1956)
Je reviendrai à Kandara (Victor Vicas, 1956)
Mimi Pinson (Robert Darène, 1957)
Les Espions (Henri-George Clouzot, 1957)
Paris brûle-t-il? (René Clément, 1965)
Les Mariés de l’an II (Jean-Paul Rappeneau, 1970)
La Maison sous les arbres (René Clément, 1971)
Themroc (Claude Faraldo, 1973)
Les Valseuses (Bertrand Blier, 1974)
Adieu Poulet (Pierre Garnier-Deferre, 1975)
Au long de la rivière Fango (Sotha, 1975)
Catherine et compagnie (Michel Boisrond, 1975)
Lily, aime-moi (Maurice Dugowson, 1975)
Pas de problème (Georges Lautner, 1975)
F…comme Fairbanks (Maurice Dugowson, 1976)
La Chambre de l’évêque (Dino Risi, 1977)
Le Juge Fayard dit le sheriff (Yves Boisset, 1977)
La Marche triomphale (Marco Bellochio, 1977)
La Clé sous la porte (Yves Boisset, 1978)
Préparez vos mouchoirs (Bertrand Blier, 1978)
Coup de tête (Jean-Jacques Annaud, 1979)
Le Grand Embouteillage (Luigi Comencini, 1979)
Série noire (Alain Corneau, 1979)
Un mauvais fils (Claude Sautet, 1980)
Plein Sud (Luc Béraud, 1980)
Beau-Père (Bertrand Blier, 1981)
Hôtel des Amériques (André Téchiné 1981)
378
Les matous sont romantiques (Sotha, 1981)
Psy (Philippe de Broca, 1981)
Mille Milliards de dollars (Henry Verneuil, 1982)
Paco l’infaillible (Didier Haudepin, 1982)
Paradis pour tous (Alain Jessua, 1982)
Films cited within the text (in alphabetical order)
1900 (Bernardo Bertolucci, 1976)
1974, une partie de campagne (Raymond Depardon, 2004)
An interior life (Gianni Barcelloni, 1979)
L’An 01 (Doillon, 1971)
A nous deux (Claude Lelouch, 1979)
L’Armée des ombres (Jean-Pierre Melville, 1969)
Avortement (Bernard George, 2002)
La Bataille d’ Alger (Pontecorvo, 1965)
Belle jour (Buñuel, 1969)
Cadaveri eccellenti (Francesco Rosi, 1977)
Ça va, ça vient (Barouh, 1970)
Le Cavaleur (de Broca, 1979)
Il Cassoto (Sergio Citti, 1977)
Le Choix des armes (Alain Corneau, 1981)
Le Clan des Siciliens (Henri Verneuil, 1969)
Le Coeur à l’envers (Apprédéris, 1980)
Courage fuyons (Yves Robert, 1979)
Danton (Adrzej Wajda, 1982)
Dernier métro (Francois Truffaut, 1980)
Le Deuxième souffle (Jean-Pierre Melville)
Dîtes-lui que je l'aime (Claude Miller, 1977)
Docteur Françoise Gailland (Bertucelli, 1976)
Écoute voir (Hugo Santiago, 1977)
Fort Saganne (Alain Corneau, 1984)
La Gifle (Claude Poiteau, 1974)
La Grand embouteillage (Comencini,1979)
379
L’Horloger de St-Paul (Tavernier, 1974)
Jean de Florette (Claude Barri, 1986)
Je vous aime (Claude Berri, 1980)
Jonas qui aura vingt ans en l’an 2000 (Tanner, 1976)
Juliette et Juliette (Forlani, 1973)
Liza (Marco Ferreri, 1975)
Lost Soul (Dino Risi, 1977)
March or die (Dick Richards, 1976)
Mort d’un pourri (Georges Lautner, 1979)
Mourir d’aimer (André Cayatte, 1970)
Pas de problème! (Lautner, 1974)
Pas si méchant que ça (Goretta, 1974)
Pourquoi pas?! (Serreau, 1971)
Pull-over rouge (Drach, 1979)
La Revanche (Lary, 1981)
Rude journée pour la reine (Allio, 1973)
Sept morts sur ordonnance (Jacques Rouffio, 1975)
Sirène du Mississppi (Truffaut, 1969)
Tenue de soirée (Bertrand Blier)
Touchez-pas au grisbi (Jacques Becker, 1954)
L’Une chante l’autre pas (Varda, 1976)
La Vieille fille (Jean-Pierre Blanc 1970)
Vincent, François, Paul, et les autres (Sautet, 1974)
Zig Zig (Szabó, 1975)
380
Other works cited in the texts
TV
Jean de la tour miracle (Carrère, 1967) Serial featuring Patrick Dewaere
Journal antenne (October 14th 1980) viewed at www.myspace.com/Dewaere (Last
accessed 14.07.07). Reportage on the de Nussac affair.
PLAYS
Misè re et noblesse (Jacques Fabbri, 1956)
Proiè de famille (Diégo Fabbri, 1958)
381