Capture capture capture.
Always capture the emotion of what you’ve just seen.
You have to take a piss?
It can wait.
[ok, sometimes it can’t]
But here it must wait.
Because Chronicle of a Summer is beyond the level of masterpiece.
For so long, I wanted to see a film of Jean Rouch.
Joined by another genius = Edgar Morin.
Where Nuit et brouillard fails, Chronique d’un été succeeds.
The reality (yes) of the Holocaust is in Marceline.
Marceline who does not want to sleep with an African.
Marceline with the concentration camp tattoo.
Marceline and her memories of her dear papa.
In this moment, the Holocaust becomes true.
We believe it…because it is not the same bullshit propaganda we have heard a million times.
Propaganda meant to amplify a truth can actually succeed (fail) in negating a truth.
Such is with the Holocaust.
It is where Spielberg fails with Schindler’s List.
It’s the Titanic of Holocaust historiography.
Titanic might be a good film (I believe it is), but it is certainly not cinema.
It is popcorn viewing.
That’s what Spielberg (of Jaws) did with the Jews.
He knew no other way.
He made a pop song out of Berg’s Violin Concerto.
Not even that.
But Rouch (rouxsch) and Morin (more on, not moron) do the opposite.
Here we see all the techniques which would dominate the work of Jean-Luc Godard in the 1960s.
And Godard has admitted the debt to Rouch.
What is that?
Ethnic and graphs?
Might be some false cognation in there.
But yes: this is a film from the social sciences.
Morin, the sociologist.
Rouch, the anthropologist (always mentioned as an “ethnographic filmmaker”).
It you want to see a film that doesn’t suck, see this one.
It has everything.
But it is not forced.
It is Paris, but it is also Africa (Côte d’Ivoire, Belgian Congo, colonial Algeria, jungles, leaves over the “sex” [genitals]).
Yet, all of this is merely talked about.
We are taken there by dialogue. Language.
High and low.
A Renault factory. Saint-Tropez.
Up and down.
Youth happy because the sun is shining and they are young.
Elderly who have lost their spouses or siblings.
Down and up.
Immigrants from Italy. Depression. REAL FUCKING DEPRESSION.
But beauty. La bohème. Attic apartments.
Bullfighting. Rock climbing. Bananas.
Fruit and //furniture forgeries.
Cooked books. Accounting irregularities.
Leisure. The revolution of doing nothing. [or at least something surreal]
You can’t just buy one book and expect to have it tell you “how the French think”.
No, my friends…
You must work at it.
You must study for years. Study a culture.
And that’s what I’ve done with the French. Because I love them.