The most significant films of the decade (1970-1980)

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By Serge Daney

Originally published as part of the poll ‘Les films marquants de la décennie (1970-1980)’, in Cahiers du cinéma nr. 308, February 1980

* Tristana, Dodeskaden, Parade
* Ici et Ailleurs, Milestones, Einleitung zu Arnold Schoenberg’s Begleitmusik zu einer Lichspielszene
* Im Lauf der Zeit, Boy, Des journées entières dans les arbres
* Salò
* Six fois deux / sur et sous la communication, Hitler, ein Film aus Deutschland, La Région centrale

1. The childish pleasure of lists… let’s give in to it. And right away it’s to note that it has been the years 1960-1970 that have been rich, adventurous, generous. And not only in cinema. For these fifteen films of the poor seventies, there must have been fifty in the vibrant sixties. Has cinema become less great? So we whisper.

2. NB Scripta manent, filma incubant. Films only exist in our memory. One should make distinctions: those we declare decisive and those we forget quickly, those we thought we didn’t like because we loved them, those who follow their path in silence, neither reviewed nor well-known, those we think of with tenderness (like we do with people), those we love because we love those who love them (and vice versa), those we almost overlooked, those of which we suspect that we have definitely overlooked them etc.

3. Twelve films plus one, stil unclassifiable, PPP’s Salò. Four times three films. An appearance of logic.

4. First of all, three films at the end of a rich career, made by “great filmmakers” but without anything testamentary or academic about them. Films of men who are free – and playful. Buñuel’s play with the logic of narrativity, Tati’s play with the dissolution of narrativity subjected to the video effect.

5. Three political, leftist (radical and puritan) films, of a decade that hasn’t stopped burying its bodies and coming back from everything. Three films questioning cinema on its political effects. Propaganda (Godard), militancy (Kramer), commitment (Straub). At Cahiers, these films were often fellow travelers, or even like apples for the thirst (but an Arab saying suggests that if it’s a good thing to keep an apple for the thirst, one also has to keep a tooth for the apple…)

6. Three nostalgic films, moving forward while turning backward, eyes turned toward the trodden path, the lost childhood – ours, that of cinema. Three films about space, borders lost territories: empires (Oshima, Wenders), colonies (Duras, creole filmmaker).

7. Three previews, three “flashes” of tomorrow, of what may become of our relation to filmed bodies in the postmodern era (multiplication of media and formats). This body, viewed from too close up (Godard, once more), manipulated (Syberberg), missing (Snow).

Commentaries (in bulk)

8. All these films come from five or six countries. No new “national” cinemas in sight. The heroes of the 1960’s (those poor countries called “third world”) is the great stagnant of the 1960’s. Unequal exchange: the poor countries are also poor in images of themselves.

9. Almost all of the films have had a difficult production, marginal, often paradoxical. This wouldn’t have been the case ten years before (a film as difficult as L’Eclisse was produced in a normal way). We are witnessing an usure of the cinema machine, of the industry’s flight forward, at least there were it still exists, of the disappearance of series (A, B, C, etc.). Consequence: a cinema of prototypes that is not followed up, of “coups” that are not renewable: this the frame in which no experience whatsoever (and even no “métier”) is accumulated.

10. Event of the late seventies: the discovery of Ozu (who died in 1963). We seem to understand something of Ozu, but the cinema machine that has allowed Ozu to work on the same themes for forty years, like a painter, with a popular audience, is behind us. Of which we take note.

11. The crisis of cinema, leitmotiv (as well) of the seventies is always that of the industry. The role of modern cinema (from Rossellini to Godard, from Bresson to resnais) has been to contest – from the inside – a classical model that was supposedly in good health. Today, from all over, resounds a plaintive and embittered cry, nostalgic and vindictive: what have we done with our play toy? Have we broken it? And accusing the Nouvelle Vague of having killed cinema…

12. Does the cinema machine reproduce itself from above or from below? Born on the bottom of the social ladder, cinema has soared: it is gentrified. Film has become a cultural value destined to circulate (the establishment of an industry and mass cultural networks is the big event of the decade) and to be rated. Consequence: framing films by way of discourse and alignement of this discours with that who dominates it: advertising; inadequacy of old specialized magazines (the Cahiers being one of them) who don’t know anymore how to carry out a work which seems to be no longer necessary (waging, judging, selecting). Image of this crisis of criticism: the slew of stars and the rare white squares each week in Pariscope.

13. American vitality. The machine has been able to reproduce itself from below, by way of television and series Z (let’s not forget: Coppola started to work for Corman) and from above (by way of hyper-spectacle and technology).

14. In France, these are the years of advance on revenue + Gaumont. Decline of the idea itself of “production”. We want to save cinema “through the top”, with prestige, culture, authors. Mistake: this leads to the weak Don Giovanni. Pyrrhus victory of the old “politique des auteurs” of the yellow Cahiers: a myriad of young filmmakers – less and less young however – who have only their title as “author” – more or less assisted – as consolation price. Television doesn’t seem to have played its role in the reproduction of the machine. No “factory of filmmakers”, no collective movement.

15. End of the 1970’s; the amateurs of cinema mainly recognize themselves in Woody Allen’s Manhattan. Young, urban, educated audience, who suddenly accept to recognise themselves on the screen. Logic of the sociologist. The cinephile becomes a probable comical type.

16. The films of the Nouvelles littéraires type are not bad: they take note of a certain gentrification of taste; In the disposal of embarrassing films, it’s the Positif-taste that wins.

17. For the first time, cinema enters a decade without discourse, without strategy, without flight of prophesy. We are wrong to take this half-heartedness for wisdom. Filmmakers have always had ideas (more or less crazy) on cinema and its future, on the transformation of forms etc.

18. Today the voice of those who continue to think that cinema “is the art of our times” carries less.

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Here’s Pascal Bonitzer’s response to the same poll, as found online (edited):

(in no order)
Man of Marble, Perceval le Gallois, Le Diable probablement, Ludwig – Requiem for a Virgin King, The Passenger, Moses und Aron, New York New York, India Song, Conversation Piece, Star Wars, The Hypothesis of the Stolen Painting.

Note:
One will notice how there are actually eleven films in this list. It is to underline the restrictiveness of this list. A visceral and quasi-inevitable “politique des auteurs” dominates it, and at the same time a futile worry for a distributive justice: I could have easily included Perceval as well as La Marquise d’O…, Le Diable as well as Lancelot du Lac etc., but one had to choose one film per author, to not exclude the others, or to transform this list of ten best films into a list of ten best auteurs. On the other hand, I need to confess, to my shame, of not having seen, for diverse reasons but always bad ones, some films that I believe would be at the top: like American Graffiti (and for this reason I’m including Star Wars), Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, L’Innocente (same thing here so that is why I included New York, New York – which could easily have been replaced by Mean Streets – and Conversation Piece). Finally, there are some films of which I’m surprised myself not to have included on this list, like Amacord, Monsieur Klein, The Other, La Maman et la putain, In the Realm of the Senses, Ici et ailleurs, Ill-Fated Love, Tristana, Nathalie Granger, Apocalypse Now or The Deer Hunter, but that’s just how it is.

Together in electric dreams

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Supposedly unable to change the times we are in or to depart from them in any way, we continue to take them in, observing and figuring this world in which we find ourselves. We have increasingly become aware that we are mostly being fed things we already know, things we have been told so many times before and we will be told many times again. Most likely that is why so many of us, in our crucial search for a displacement of thought or a blurring of vision, tend to rely less and less on the visual evidence of this world, and look more and more toward the emotions that remain unrepresented by noisy broadcasts and unsignaled by loud headlines. This world might be impossible to capture in words or images, but they can be deployed to reveal the complexity of our contemporary experiences of disappointment and predicament, offering a sensible world that somehow responds to it. It is this sense of exploration that can be felt when looking at the work of many young filmmakers, at least for those who are willing to spend some precious time in the cinema spaces or on the festivals that choose to avoid the trodden paths and refuse the dead ends that are customarily ascribed to contemporary cinema. At the recent edition of FID Marseilles there were more than a few films that gave rise to the tantalizing feeling that cinema still has something to say about our world, for better or for worse.

It is a barren emotional state in which we find ourselves moving through the clutter of this world. In our incapacity to escape from the deepest depths of the spectacle of consumption, which now feels like the only way of living, it seems as if we can only continue to manage our suffering as something ever attached to the colonized body of our life. We are so sucked out and scared we wear it like a fashion, topped off by an acute lack of orientation. Impossible to know which way we walk, impossible to know if we walk at all upon the earth below us or if there is in fact an earth or a below upon which we might walk. Uncertain about who we are and where to go, what we know better is all that we are strange to: the radiant smiles and comforting words of those who continue to celebrate the logic of accumulation by dispossession, those who choose to join the hallucinatory dance of the global financial elites, gliding between the whirls and twirls of virtual credit and the sweeps and flows of transnational capital, surrounded by crawling governments, drunken with the maddening wine of liquid power and stealthy control, while so many are standing around in anguish, waiting for the lights to come up, roaming in the dark in wait for an all-encompassing whirlwind to put an end to this mad, ever rotating danse macabre.

And so we rage. We rage all the more because we don’t know what to do with our rage, we don’t know how to use it to make a difference, we don’t even know who or what we are raging against, causing us to feel that we ourselves might be the wrong being done to us, we who find ourselves caught up in an addictive frenzy of compulsion and frustration, at the same time spinning on the hamster wheel and stuck in the rat race, we who feel utterly confused by the dialectical ambivalence of fascination and condemnation for the swag and swank of capital, we who can’t help being mesmerized by the blinding glitter of bling-bling, drawn in by the neon melancholy of anonymous hotels and shady lounges, in awe of the slow-burning beseech of fast food chains and lifestyle brands, propelled by the mindless circulation of money flows and info bits. Isn’t it this two-faced ambivalence that is brimming in Harmony Korine’s Spring Breakers or, elsewhere, Kayne West’s Jeezus, two mutant fever dreams – somehow bridging the candy colored bombast that tinted the 1980’s and the shredding dystopian visions that shook up the 2000’s – that seem to lay waste to all divides between obsession and scorn for capitalism’s excesses ? And couldn’t this also have something to do with the unability of many to recognize the sense of irony that permeates Martin Scorsese’s The Wolf on Wall Street ? Our landscape of desire has never been so deranged and schizophrenic, torn as it is between seduction and repulsion, between complicity and guilt.

“Everybody’s got a hungry heart”, the Boss sings, “Lay down your money and play your part”. Cropping up at the end of Cantine / Transept, the debut film by Benjamin Klintoe & Dan Perez, the song hits you like a kick in the chest: its snappy rhythm and infectious mood can no longer obscure the bleak narrative of loss and failure contained in the lyrics. It’s a heart-wrenching clincher for a merciless take on some of those who are left dabbling in an all-consuming absence of affect, caught up in a never ending war against the urgency of their own boredom – “some kids lost in the sauce”, as the character of Joe Killer recounts, who “just want to have fun screwing the world”, who only know they “don’t want the life of others“ and count the whole world as their enemy. There is nothing to hold them while they fall into the ruins, nothing to soothe their anxiety as they plunge through the rubble in search for another high, another score, another distraction. No inhalation, no blow, no whack, no fast sex or easy take comes even close to matching the intensity of the fall, and no grunts of fury or whispers of fear can give vent to the tremendous desire burning inside, so desperately clamoring for articulation. As if the only way to not give up on desire, the only way left to exist, is to plunge ourselves into the chaos. As if the refusal to yield to the trials and tribulations of society, so uncompromising in its ambivalence, carelessness and hostility toward us, comes at the high price of becoming outcasts in our own time.

So many filmmakers seem to be drawn to the physiological and psychological chaos generated by frustration and excess, to the space of loneliness and disorder that is nourished by the frantic search for those intensities that could lead us into unknown territories where we could loose ourselves, even just for a while. Their universe is inhabited by fools, madmen, misfits and night-ark drifters roaming in Cimmerian wastelands and fluorspar twilight zones, where they often go in hiding from the yellow of gaudy urban lights that makes them feel so vulnerable and exposed. In Virgil Vernier’s Mercuriales the fractured landscapes of the Parisian banlieues are used as the hallucinatory backdrop for a twisted fairy tale on the spectres of legend futures past. Looking over these suburban landscapes are the cold shadows of the abandoned twin towers of Bagnolet, sad totem poles of an era gone by, dream residues of a world from before the future vanished from sight, when it was still conceivable to imagine a world different from the one in which we live. Guided by James Ferraro’s hypnagogic incantations and mutations of our wretched throwaway culture, like a nebula of free-floating memories slipping in and out of focus, one has a sense of plugging into the underground currents that expose the loops and fuses of past reveries and delusional fantasies. As the characters wander through a scattered world of dead end streets and cul-de-sacs, endless runways and gateways covered with bright graffiti that only seems to conceal misery and anonymity, what is laid bare is the festering wound of the present, this age of wreckage from which we need to salvage what remained unimagined, in order to fill up the void of the future.

Attempting to refuse resignation, we look for some recognition in the faces of others, reaching out in the darkly lit dream lands for other bodies, those imagined and imperceptible as well as those actual and perceivable, in the hope of transforming into animated coexistent bodies, improbably shared. But how can we, in all our reaching and touching, avoid losing our desire in the obscure mists of the nirvana principle, where all life tension dissolves into thin air ? Watching Luis López Carrasco’s El Futuro, it appears as if we can only wake up from the hangover of neo-liberalism by going right into another one, dancing and fucking the pain away until we are left dwelling in nothingness. How can we find a way to persist and insist beyond this gape into the void, against the lethargy of endless deferral and the ordeal of unliving ? How can we, sentient in our dance of death, continue to fight to come to exist, to be the future that happens ? What these films draw out, in a very tentative way, is perhaps not only an unfinished cartography of the wastelands of frozen imagination and thwarted desire, but also a map of how to perceive, amidst the darkness, this light that tries to reach us but never will. Perhaps being able to act in the present requires to live all that is left unlived.

Benjamin Klintoe & Dan Perez, Cantine / Transept (FR, 2013, 32′)

CANTINE, TRANSEPT from Dan Perez on Vimeo.

Virgil Vernier, Mercuriales (FR, 2014, 105′)

MERCURIALES – VIRGIL VERNIER (EXTRAIT 1) from Kazak Productions on Vimeo.

Luis López Carrasco, El Futuro (ES, 2013, 67′)

TEASER EL FUTURO from Sergio Jiménez on Vimeo.

Some notes are borrowed from Rachel Levitsky’s The Story of My Accident is Ours.