Author: Ng Chun-Ning (from Douban)
This interview was published in the fifth issue of "Firefly" magazine, where Giovanni Marconi talks with Agnès Varda. In this interview, Varda mainly discusses her debut film "La Pointe Courte," the politics and women's rights in the film, and the personal nature of images.
On July 13, 2017, I went to Paris to interview Agnès Varda, unknowingly fulfilling two wishes that many film fans dream of: I chatted with this legendary filmmaker for several hours and visited the sacred place of French cinema—Varda's residence at 86-88 Rue Daguerre. As I emerged from the subway, the documentary "Daguerréotypes," filmed by Varda in 1976, kept replaying in my mind as I tried to recall the route to 86-88. The charming, dilapidated craft shops and family workshops from the film were gone, replaced by trendy fashion stores, restaurants, and cafés. What used to be a butcher shop is now a yoga studio. The neighborhood has gentrified, but the Daguerréotypes that Varda recorded remain indelible. Upon seeing that familiar building, my memory became clear: that was Varda's house, where she has lived since 1951. The magenta exterior and pink shutters cheerfully stirred the monotonous street scene. I rang the doorbell next to the tricolor gate, which had a huge mailbox hanging on it, just like the one in "Agnès's Beach." The door opened, and I was greeted by Ms. Louise, a staff member of Varda's own production company, Ciné-Tamaris, which has its office on the first floor of Varda's home. Louise led me through the yard, which was filled with many trees and blooming flowers. On a windowsill, I saw the clock without hands from "The Gleaners and I." As we crossed the yard to the back of the house, Varda was having tea with others. Everything around seemed like familiar stills from a film, with Varda still sitting in that familiar spot, sometimes alone, sometimes with others: Jacques Demy, Jane Birkin... Time seemed to have stopped there. I walked to the table, pulled out a chair to sit down, and a cat was sleeping on it.
(While taking out my notebook) I prepared some questions.
Varda: My God! Let's get started.
Your first film "La Pointe Courte" was shot in 1955, but at that time, you had not received any formal training in film and had hardly seen any films. While making this film, you were obsessed with painting and literature, and you were also working in photography at a theater. Can we say that you learned to make films from these other art forms?
Varda: I was indeed a photographer, but I was not satisfied with that, so I turned to film. I had no formal training in film, and that's a fact. I had never assisted a director or attended film school. By the time I was twenty-five, I had probably seen eight or ten films, no more than that. No one in my family went to the movies. I often went to the theater to see plays, and I frequently visited museums. I wrote my first film right here, at this table in the yard, in 1953. People often write little poems, but after writing them, they immediately put them in a drawer; this script was almost like one of those little poems, like a daydream of making a film.
Every summer, my family would vacation in Sète, and the story of "La Pointe Courte" takes place in the village of Pointe Courte, which is near Sète. During World War II, my family sought refuge in Sète, and we returned there every summer afterward. Ironically, we are now talking about Pointe Courte, and I just returned from there two days ago. Most of the people from back then have passed away. When I was filming in Pointe Courte, André Lubrano was just a little boy; we were good friends, and now he is seventy-five. The line in the film "Go tell grandpa" is directed at him. Besides him, not many people in Pointe Courte probably remember the filming from back then. Otherwise, there should be someone visiting me from Pointe Courte regularly, like the nephew of a fisherman or someone's cousin, a kind-hearted person who lent us a fishing net, or someone's grandson who lent us his house for filming. I still feel happy every time I go back, but there are now far fewer fishermen than before, less than one-sixth of what there used to be.
So much has changed, but going back to Pointe Courte, wandering around, really revitalizes me. I feel that passion again, that spontaneous madness. There is a very famous behind-the-scenes photo of me kneeling in front of the camera; that was the first day of shooting my first film. We started with the difficult parts. My assistant, Mr. Carlos Villardebo, wanted to shoot some easy shots first, but I disagreed and said, "Let's start with the hardest scenes!" So, the first scene we shot on the first day was in a poor person's house. The camera enters the poor person's home, where they are gathered around the table eating. The camera moves past them and then enters the next room, where a sick child is sleeping in a little bed made of a cardboard box, and then the camera continues to wander out the back, reaching the other side of the point. The whole process was quite challenging. We were happy to start with this shot, and when I finished this part, I told myself, "Look, I am now a real filmmaker."
I indeed had no training, but that was what I thought, "I am now a real filmmaker," and I don't know why. But I did try to achieve certain effects. I remember a shot of a man named Raphael, who, unfortunately, has passed away; he was walking with a child. The footsteps of the man and the child intertwined, somewhat like the rhythm of jazz, in a three-four beat. That was what I was thinking about; my mind was filled with ideas about composition, painting, rhythm, and so on. The classic profile shot of Philippe Noiret and Sylvia Montfort was clearly inspired by Picasso. I wanted to recreate a composition of a profile shot in the film, and I think I succeeded.
The narrative structure of the film was influenced by Faulkner, especially his book "Wild Palms." This novel has two independent storylines that alternate in narration; this chaotic structure has an undercurrent that increases the complexity of reading. We have to believe that subtle influences exist. I feel that our cerebral cortex operates this way. It seems unlikely that we can express two ideas simultaneously, but different paths can converge; although they are different, they ultimately intersect. I don't understand why this bold narrative structure is so incredible, but I tell myself, "If someone dares to try this structure in literature, surely someone must experiment with it in film!"
When Alain Resnais was editing for me, he told me, "You don't understand film? You can go to the film archive and take a look..." I had never heard of the film archive. Resnais recommended that I go to the archive to watch films, the first being Dreyer's "Vampyr," which was screened alongside one of his short films, "The Boat." That day, I was baptized and became a film fan.
I tell you all this not for any other reason, but because I just returned from Pointe Courte two days ago, and I realized the significance of that land to me. The impact of Pointe Courte on me is immense; that land and the people who lived there left a deep impression on me, and they have always inspired me, allowing me to reconstruct reality from those real people. My latest work is also about that. By the way, have you seen that film? The one I made with Jean Genet.
"Faces, Places"? I saw it not long ago at Cannes.
Varda: You saw it at Cannes! Then you must have noticed that this film is still about real people. We put them in front of the camera, but in reality, they inspire us. They talked to us about some amazing things, very interesting.
Really, since 1954, I have been reconstructing reality from real people. In contrast, when filming "La Pointe Courte," I wanted the dialogue between the couple in the story to be more dramatic and psychological: deliberate, rather than a natural outpouring. Poor Philippe Noiret wanted to play the role more sadly because he hadn’t acted in films before; he wanted to add more emotion to the character. After this film, Noiret took on many more emotional roles, and his film career was quite brilliant. But at that time, I told him, "No, you know Japanese Noh theater? You must express nothing. The most you can do is this." (As Varda speaks, she raises her hand in front of her eyes) In Noh theater, you raise your hand in front of your eyes to block your vision, which represents sadness. This is the most extreme sadness in Noh theater. Noiret was conflicted. Later, he understood my meaning and became happy, but at that time, he was quite troubled and had a hard time.
In other words, that was what I was interested in. The purpose of making a film is not to recreate a play, a novel, or someone else's script in visual form. I want to enter and exist within the material of film. If you ask me, I do have some quite radical ideas.
Your films have a unique characteristic, that warmth that gradually reveals itself in the characters. Whether in your narrative films or documentaries, this characteristic has always been present. In other words, is it possible for you to film people you do not like?
Varda: I would never film things I am not interested in, nor would I film environments I do not like, just as I do not film the bourgeoisie, the industrial elite, or bankers... I do not hate these people; I just have no interest in them. Claude Chabrol has a unique critique of the bourgeoisie: their pain, their flaws, and qualities. But my films have nothing to do with the bourgeoisie.
I am attracted to those who are out of place and powerless. They are interesting, and therefore, when you film them, what you give them is not power, but the dignity to speak again, to tell their stories in their own words.
Of course, there are exceptions; when filming "La Pointe Courte," I wrote lines for those fishermen. Although those lines were prepared with the fishermen, they were indeed written out. And in "The Gleaners and I," I wrote all the testimonies. It looks like a documentary, but it is not; I assure you, this story is entirely fictional. Everything, including the tone of the characters' speech, their clothing, their dialect, everything was scripted, but it looks very real. Whether it's a mechanic or a construction worker, their lines were written in the script, but it sounds like natural speech. Everyone was surprised by this.
Before filming "The Gleaners and I," I often drove alone, looking for real hitchhikers, both men and women. I spent at least a month understanding their wandering routes and where they slept at night. At night, I would go to the train station and stay until late. You know, especially in winter, these homeless people are starving and freezing; you just wait until two in the morning when they start chatting because they are bored...
What surprised me the most was that you are powerless to help them. It’s complicated. For example, once I gave a girl a ride. When we arrived, I said to her, "How about we find a restaurant and have a meal together?" We walked into a restaurant, but the waiter refused us because the girl was "too dirty." The waiter would not allow this girl to eat there, even if we paid. I realized that the barriers separating the rich and poor were the smell and filth on their bodies.
Sometimes, I would squat down in protest with my team, telling them, "Just as people break the barrier of sound, we also need to break the barrier of smell. We might have to stay in a stinky place, with the smell of alcohol and feces..." Those homeless people live in such environments; we have to try to understand them; the smell is not the key. We need to break people's prejudices; these homeless people are not dirty.
On another occasion, I brought a homeless woman back to my home, the very room where we are speaking now. I let her stay in a room and lent her the bathroom. But the next day, I found that she hadn’t taken a shower. They have no desire to bathe. Dealing with real people, I realized that our value system needs to change. Staying clean is not a virtue; it is merely a way of life. Being unclean is not immoral; being unclean is not filthy; this value system is actually causing division. These experiences led me to think more when filming "The Gleaners and I." I have never filmed the rich and the powerful; they have done nothing wrong, and there are already plenty of films about them, but I am not interested in them.
The people you are interested in often do not belong to the same social group as you; I am not only thinking of the homeless but also of the African American and Latino communities in the United States. As a filmmaker, how do you overcome the voyeuristic and sensational aspects of film to ensure objectivity?
Varda: It's simple; I communicate with them. For example, when I was filming "The Gleaners and I," I would talk to them: "Really? You live in a trailer? Oh, is there water on the other side of the field? I have a bathroom and a bed. My job is to make documentaries, trying to explain different people's ways of life and different ways of thinking. If you are willing, I hope you can tell me about yourselves." Of course, it’s not exactly like that. Usually, in films, farmers talk about farmers, workers talk about workers, and poor people talk about poor people. I feel that this way of filming is meaningless. A few gleaners talked to me about social issues, which was quite interesting, and their points were no less than those of a sociologist. The topics of discussion should not be limited to their work.
The problem arose when we took "The Gleaners and I" to film festivals; people liked the film very much and applauded for us. When we went on stage to speak, I said to the audience, "I know you are applauding for the people who were filmed in the movie." This time, while filming "Faces, Places" with Jean Genet, I said, "We are merely intermediaries. We cannot bring them along, those workers and farmers, but we represent them." Besides, as people in the entertainment industry, we are like clowns, making jokes... Do you know French cinema? Have you seen "The Tall Blond Man with One Black Shoe"?
I have seen "The Tall Blond Man with One Black Shoe," a Louis de Funès film; I loved watching it as a child.
Varda: Jean Genet said I loved to wander around, and indeed, the first person to say that about me was Louis Garrel. That’s not wrong. Jean Genet and I constantly discuss foolish behavior because we are happy filmmakers. In our films, we love those people; we give them a little privilege to be themselves, to be loved, to be listened to, and to be willing to tell their stories. I don’t know if you remember the woman in the film who raises sheep, fighting to prevent her goat from being dehorned; she is so passionate. She speaks so wonderfully! Her arguments about goat horns are so clear! That’s something both Jean Genet and I love.
We belong to the same type of filmmakers, of course, there are others. We are interested in real characters, learning from them, and enriching our lives. I have learned a lot from these people. They have something to say, and that is what truly moves me. The elderly man in "Faces, Places" who has never worked in his life deeply touched me. He raised an important social issue—retirement. Retirement has sparked much debate in contemporary France: How long must one work? How much pension can people receive? Will life be difficult after retirement? And so on. The film also presents another reality, the other side of retirement: a man who worked in a factory his whole life, doing hard labor, it is his last day at work. He puts on his nice clothes, ready to call his good friends for a drink. He looks at us and calmly says, "I feel like I am standing at the edge of a cliff, ready to jump." For me, that was terrible. But at the same time, the way this man casually said this was so beautiful.
What attracts me is the thematic clues hidden behind this dialogue: the man says he is going to jump off the cliff. Many years ago, I filmed a goat that fell off a cliff; Jean Genet and I went to see the remnants of a wartime bunker at Saint-Marguerite, which fell from the cliff to the beach below; we chatted with the mayor, who told us a calf had fallen off a cliff. It’s unbelievable; we didn’t plan these things, but suddenly, cliffs and those who fall off them intertwined into an internal, hidden clue.
The way these real people narrate inspires imagination; they themselves have their own imaginations. They talk, and I feel they gradually open up... like the sound of a gong, spreading outwards and creating interesting resonances—about people, about ourselves. This teaches us something; it makes us more sensitive to what others say, and thus we become better listeners.
Regarding the topic of retirement, your films always connect with recent events and discussions. Is this purely your personal preference, or do you feel it is a filmmaker's duty to engage with current social realities?
Varda: I do not think of myself as making political films, but those who have seen my films will find that I am indeed talking about what is happening. Indeed, I filmed the Black Panther Party; they were quite active in the late sixties, but the movement did not last long. I filmed "The Black Panthers" because I wanted to witness that moment. The rise of the Black Panther Party and the emergence of women's studies occurred around the same time, which also surprised me. For the first time in history, women gradually had a voice. Of course, there have been many male philosophers who wrote for women in history, such as Hegel, John Stuart Mill, and August Bebel, but it wasn't until the 1960s that genuine women's studies began to emerge: women theorizing about women. The same situation occurred within the Black community: for a long time, white people held the narrative power over Black people, writing their history, but now, Black people are beginning to theorize about themselves. Stokely Carmichael, Eldridge Cleaver, Bobby Seale... For the first time in history, these Black activists wrote their own manifestos and plans.
I was amazed by all this happening, and I told myself, "This is fascinating; people are awakening..." These people had no voting rights; women could not vote, and neither could Black people. I wanted to be a witness, so I participated in many protests. I also witnessed the construction that began in China in the 1950s. I arrived in China in 1957, and my travels there were fantastic and interesting. In 1962, I went to Cuba, and the missile crisis had not yet ended. The world was changing rapidly, with significant events happening every day; wherever something significant happened or interesting new things appeared, I was there. My films do not aim to express any political viewpoint; my films exist here, objectively.
I have a particular focus on the history of women's struggles in France. Not long ago, Simone Veil was just buried. During her time as Minister of Health in the 1970s, she fought for the legal right to abortion for French women, and people will always remember her. At that time, her struggle was merely for "medical reasons," and she did not dare to advocate for women's liberation. The legislation for the legalization of abortion took ten years, ten years of persistence, ten years of protests, and also ten years of suffering. I made a film called "One Sings, the Other Doesn't," and I participated in this struggle. It is not about politics; it is about one woman and another woman, about the suffering we endure as women. Since we witnessed all this, we must strive to prevent it from happening again.
People have made some excellent immersive films. Jean Genet said it well: we are still immersed; we are still in the process of immersion. What he means is that we should participate in something in a humorous way. I do not belong to any political party; I have never registered with one, neither as a communist nor a socialist, but I lean more to the left. I signed the "Declaration of the 343 Sluts" (in 1971, a declaration by 343 prominent women, led by French philosopher Simone de Beauvoir, admitting to having had abortions and advocating for the legalization of abortion in France) to defend women's justice. At that time, abortion was illegal in France, and those poor girls had to go to Switzerland or England for abortions, and many girls who had illegal abortions were thrown into prison. Three hundred and forty-three prominent women signed this declaration, admitting to having had illegal abortions, and we shouted, "We are the sluts who have had abortions; judge us!" Of course, the government did not judge us. Besides myself, those who signed this declaration included Catherine Deneuve, Delphine Seyrig, and Françoise Sagan. This is not just about abortion; it also reflects that justice does not shelter the poor.
In 1972, there was a famous case involving a poor girl named Bobigny, who was only about sixteen years old. Her mother helped her get an abortion, as she obviously could not support the child at her age. She was taken to court by the child's father because she had no right to choose abortion. She was brought to court for trial, and we were all there, hundreds of women. There was a barrier separating us, and we were all shouting. At that time, I was pregnant with Mathieu, and I was eight months along, my belly quite large. We were pushing against the barrier, and Delphine Seyrig was right next to me, saying to me, "If you give birth now, we will make the front page!" I was quite amused.
We were fighting for women's rights, led by Simone de Beauvoir, as if suddenly abortion became legal, but who remembers how we fought for it! It was truly a battle. You must understand that this really has nothing to do with politics; in fact, the suffering women endure is so terrible. Nowadays, we have forgotten the women who fought back then. However, women still do not have the right to contraception, nor the right to take the pill; these rights do not exist. My mother had eleven siblings, and Sandrine Bonnaire's parents had nine children... With so many children to care for, how much time is left for mothers? Do they have time to think? Do they have time to appreciate flowers? Or to visit museums? I highly doubt it.
Nowadays, we are constantly focused on boats full of refugees, debating whether we should let them come to Europe. Earlier, we talked about people falling off cliffs; every day, I worry about whether these people will fall off those overcrowded boats. They are loaded with meaningless dreams. Others tell them that life will be better in Europe. But they cannot stay; they cannot get documents approved. I sometimes have this terrifying fantasy that people are walking along and suddenly fall into the water. We filmmakers should not film them; they swim in the water but can never reach the shore. We can remember them, but we should not talk about them, let alone film them.
When your films address social injustice, you always find some connection in your personal life. In your early short film "The Opera of the Moutard Family," you expressed your experience of pregnancy through the various people on Moutard Street.
Varda: I fell in love with everyone on Moutard Street, the elderly and the homeless alike. I was pregnant, observing them. I thought, "They were once babies. Their mothers must have lovingly caressed their round bellies. There must have been someone excitedly calling out to the child, 'What a lovely little darling he is.'" When you are pregnant, you always feel that your child must be beautiful and healthy, living a happy life. You cannot think of anything else! You certainly would not tell yourself, "I am bringing this poor child into this world."
It is terrible; once you start worrying about the child's health, you project the same negative emotions onto the people around you, those limping old people, those drunks. The people in "The Opera of the Moutard Family," they sit in little bars, gazing at the sky with utterly bewildered eyes. You can be sure they are wandering, wandering to the ends of the earth, alone... I cannot assert whether they are sad or happy, but their gaze carries a hint of bitterness, a kind of empty pain. You are powerless to help them; you can only be infected by this emptiness. In your personal life, you project the same emotions onto the people around you.
Everything I have mentioned summarizes my answer to your question: I do not think of myself as making political films. In my life, I gaze at others; this is my way of participating in life, and it is also my way of communicating with people.
You also project other chapters of life into your works, including those painful ones. After Jacques Demy passed away, you made a biopic "Jacques Demy of Nantes." Filming this movie must have been significant for you.
Varda: In fact, I was already filming "Jacques Demy of Nantes" while Jacques was still alive. He wrote while reminiscing about his youth. Every other night, he would read me some of his writings. I told him it would be a wonderful script, and he said, "Would you like to film it? I am running out of time." Indeed, he was quite tired and weak at that time.
While Jacques was alive, watching me film his childhood, I believe he was very happy. In the last days of his life, illness found him, and he calmly accepted his fate; he was very clear about his condition. At that time, AIDS was difficult to treat, and he preferred to do things he loved during the last journey of his life: reminiscing about his childhood. I understood that this film was very important to him, and the only thing I could do was to complete this film for him. Fifteen days after the film was completed, Jacques passed away. It was quite miraculous, as if he had waited for the filming to finish before he could leave in peace. Afterward, I casually talked about his death in "Agnès's Beach." I discussed him, his illness, and those things that were not mentioned when he passed away, perhaps in a way that could be said to be predestined.
Indeed, Jacques's death is etched in the film; Jacques is reborn in "Jacques Demy of Nantes." The parts from the 1940s were shot in black and white; I think it is precisely those colorful childhood segments of his life that form the blood and bones of this film. I pretended to be a film school student, writing a paper titled "The Cinematic Inspiration of Jacques Demy." I extracted many clips from his films, knowing that the inspiration for these clips came from his childhood, his adolescence, and the things around him, so wonderful. In fact, he was not interested in anything else. All the stories he told me could be traced back to his little world. He had a gambling aunt, so he made a film about gambling called "The Bay of Angels." That is Jacques. Film fans can also find similar things in my films.
While filming, he was right beside me, giving this film a third dimension. He watched his childhood reappear before him; he occasionally said a few words; I filmed his hands, his skin, his face... This is a complex film and one of my favorites; the pain expressed in this film structures what I want.
Jacques is gone; we have lost each other; I am alone, reminiscing about us. When Jacques passed away, I was editing this film with my editor, Marie-Josée Ouimet. From time to time, I saw Jacques's figure on the film. I cried while giving instructions: "No, take out two frames. The sound needs to come in a bit earlier." I never thought a person could suddenly split into two. Half of me was meticulously working, just like I usually do when editing, while the other half kept crying. We decided not to talk about Jacques anymore; I wiped my tears and continued editing.
We made the film while experiencing our grief, again and again. My heart was broken, and the children's hearts were broken too. We were heartbroken to the extreme. People loved Jacques; they offered their mourning and respect. They told us how they loved Jacques, but each time people comforted me, my heart broke again. Meanwhile, the editing work allowed me to slightly distract myself from the sorrow; the satisfaction brought by editing was real, finding the right editing points, refining it a bit better, all of this made me feel a little uplifted. I often talk about what I call "cinematic writing," and this is where cinematic writing exists. I have never abandoned the idea of structure: structuring editing, structuring narrative, the gaps in emotion... This is interesting; filmmaking is indeed a wonderful profession.
You always let your children act in your films, especially Mathieu Demy, who appeared in "The Gleaners and I" and "The Kung Fu Master," as well as some other films. Does making films with him bring you closer together and help you understand him better?
Varda: My answer is no. In fact, filmmakers who do not seek the consent of the parties involved to let their own children act in films are engaging in quite a cunning behavior. Their own children are right there; they look good and cooperate well, so they just point the camera at them.
Filming "The Gleaners and I" with Mathieu was quite an interesting experience; he was only nine years old. I had a wonderful editor, Sabine Mamou, who also edited "The Whispering Wall" with me. "The Gleaners and I" is a story about a French woman and her child, and while I was conceiving the script, I couldn't help but think, "Why not ask Sabine? She is smart and beautiful; this is not a very complicated role... Why not let Mathieu play her son? Sabine really likes Mathieu." So we formed this family workshop-like crew; we lived together, Sabine had her own room, Mathieu had his own room, and I had my own room. Among all my films, this is one of my favorites.
Later, my little Mathieu grew up and became an actor and director. He made a film called "American," have you seen it?
Unfortunately, I haven't seen it.
Varda: You should check it out when you have the chance. It is a film about identity, and I think it is great. Mathieu showed me the script for the film, and I was shocked; the film starts like this: Martin (the character played by Mathieu) wakes up in bed next to his wife, picks up the phone, and shouts, "Oh my God, my mother is dead!" His mother lives in Los Angeles, and he must rush there to bury her. When he arrives in Los Angeles, he begins to recall his childhood through flashbacks, and these flashback segments already existed; they come from "The Gleaners and I." He selected clips from the film he participated in during his childhood and reconstructed Martin's childhood in "American." To me, the meaning couldn't be clearer; he is reinterpreting those images he obtained from his childhood.
This is interesting because most child stars have a feeling that the version of themselves in the film does not belong to them. In a cinematic way, Mathieu reclaimed ownership of those images and that experience from me. I never sought his consent to point the camera at him. I probably asked him, "Do you want to make this film?" For a nine-year-old child, he does not have the ability to refuse. He did not dislike making this film. We shouted "Action," and he acted as if he had been crying all night; after filming, he went back to playing with his skateboard as if nothing had happened. Children sometimes perform better than adults.
Gérard Depardieu is like that; he jokes around all the time, but when "Action" is called, he immediately transforms into the most tragic person in the world. Have you seen "The Valley of Love" from a few years ago? His performance is extraordinary. Depardieu has become quite overweight! This film was shot in Death Valley, where it is very hot; he wore shorts, and his belly was so big, sweating profusely. Yet he was so touching, remarkable. You share the torment and grief of losing a child with him. Depardieu is an incredible actor; if you ask me, he is one of the greatest actors.
Do you have a personal relationship with Mr. Depardieu?
Varda: We have worked on some things together; I am not talking about "Agnès's Beach," but earlier, we were preparing to shoot a film called "A Christmas Carol," and I am not quite sure; he might have been only eighteen at that time. We filmed some scenes. The film's producer, Edmond Ténoudji, told me, "First, give me some footage; I will take it back to show my two sons and see if they like it." After watching, Ténoudji's two sons said, "This guy is terrible; he can't make a movie." (laughs)
Ténoudji then rejected Depardieu, and later this film fell through. There might still be some fragments left, about four shots. I think Depardieu is quite good. In the film, on Christmas Day, he walks past the shop windows filled with expensive goods and says, "Money, money, always money... No, no, Picasso is the real beauty!" (laughs) Ah, I still remember that scene.
That was a wonderful scene, a kind of illusion, a daydream, fantasizing that art, culture, and the mistakes of beauty could unite people; this is not the world we live in. In this cruel world, suffering and mistakes are synonymous; those lovely people still hold onto such illusions and dreams. We have witnessed disasters and experienced tragedies; this world has wars and suffering. Everyone has told me, "You are lucky; you still have not lost your sense of humor." Perhaps they are right.
This is also what surprises me. Earlier, you mentioned that "The Gleaners and I" is your most satisfying work; I remember you also said this in "Agnès's Beach." It is a beautiful film, but to me, it also seems to be your saddest one, where your unique optimism is absent. This optimism has always appeared on the fringes of your films, even in "Jacques Demy of Nantes," where that optimism still exists.
Varda: You are right, but I like the sadness in films; I enjoy crying in the cinema. "Don't shake me; my face is all tears." Can you understand that feeling? Crying in the cinema allows you to vent your most secret emotions. We all cry; we must always be prepared with tissues, no exceptions. I love this film because of its sadness.
Sometimes I ask myself, "Is it possible to film pain? Is it possible to materialize pain?" Pain is almost an abstract existence; it cannot be expressed simply by saying, "He did this, she did that." Rather, it is a moment when the feeling of pain occupies you. How does one acquire pain? Our cinematographer, Nourith Avif, filmed everything we saw, the pain we witnessed, that kind of pain that is unspeakable: a man on the beach holding his child; a limping woman pulling the curtains... This is a cautious film.
Sadness also carries a romantic air: "Calm down, my sorrow; we must proceed with caution." The most beautiful poems of Baudelaire are about suffering, but in film, the question is how to abandon language and present it through images, allowing the recorded images to speak for humanity: true emotions cannot be articulated; they can only be presented. This is also the beauty of cinema. Sometimes, we film people, and we do not know who they are or what they do. On the beach, there is a woman kneeling, frantically digging in the sand. I watched her for a while, and I felt she was performing some kind of religious ritual. After a while, I saw this woman again; she was lying on the beach with a Bible on her stomach, and two men were kneeling beside her, motionless. I had Sabine and Mathieu walk past them and film them together.
We do not know what these people are doing on the beach; we cannot understand this scene, just as we do not understand ourselves. I feel that all this suffering, presented through images, is so painful yet so difficult to comprehend; this is the language of cinema, prompting us to rethink these questions: "Do we understand others?" "Do we understand ourselves?" "What do we know?" "How does the abstract concept of pain exist and permeate our lives, our daily existence?" It is challenging to express these complex ideas in film; filmmakers must find new ways to represent them.
The music composed by Georges Delerue for the film is magnificent; the word "magnificent" is insufficient to express it... He understands film. I give him the film, and he can compose music while watching it. (Varda hums a tune) Oh, I love this song. He is a very special person, a bit hunchbacked, and this condition caused him a lot of suffering as a child. After becoming famous, he remained humble; I know this is because he has experienced a lot of pain. I feel that Delerue understands me, and it is wonderful to collaborate with him.
All these thoughts exist at the docks in Los Angeles, the end of the land, facing the vast sea. Those desperate souls come to Los Angeles, yearning for success, yearning for gold; the entire westward expansion was in search of gold, ultimately reaching this city of angels. I filmed there, surrounded by foreigners.
I saw many diverse things, confirming my thoughts: the lives of others, the existence of others, continuously provide us with various images, allowing us to recognize ourselves, making us understand what is happening because we often do not know what is happening. This way of watching others... I am not sure if this way is comfortable; perhaps quite the opposite: we find that those being observed are far braver, more patient, and smarter than we are... This observation fills me.
If that is the case, filming "Agnès's Beach" is precisely the opposite; it is a semi-autobiographical film, an inward look at oneself rather than an outward look at others. Wouldn't that feel a bit different?
Varda: Although I talked about many other people, "Agnès's Beach" is a very personal film. Things, humans, situations—not just about myself. Not entirely. This time, filming with Jean Genet was more joyful because "Faces, Places" continued to return to others. Will we meet different people? What will they talk to us about? What will we show the audience? What kind of images will we present, large or small? We were full of energy. I do not like to say "positive energy"; it sounds too corny, but we indeed felt filled with "positive energy."
I think you understand; nowadays, people always say that things are getting worse; it is too easy to say such things. While we were filming, there were terrorist attacks in Paris, and shortly after, the Syrian refugee camp in Calais caught fire. It was terrifying. New situations arose every day. Returning to Paris, over by La Chapelle, the government began to drive away the refugees. Many women were living on the sidewalks, and we donated twenty tents. But two days later, the police came and drove those people away, confiscating their tents. The situation became increasingly complicated; we were merely leaves in the wind, drifting aimlessly.
I tried to find a purely cinematic way of expression, rather than simply "seeing and hearing." I asked myself, "What is cinema?" I do not know; I cannot find any definition, and I will continue to ponder this question.
At the end of "Faces, Places," we arrived outside Jean-Luc Godard's house but were turned away; the door was locked. I think that is a highly cinematic existence. It is as if Jean-Luc and I wrote this script together, and he contributed this ending. Jean Genet was right; Jean-Luc wanted to disrupt my narrative structure, creating a virtual dialogue. When I finished editing, this feeling became stronger. I do not know if you noticed the ending of the film; do you not think Jean-Luc broke the warm tone of the entire film?
What do you mean by "breaking the warm tone of the entire film"?
Varda: Because everyone else in the film is so friendly and sincere, they always have smiles on their faces.
I hope the ending scene was pre-designed in the script because that is so heartbreaking. Jean-Luc Godard did not open the door for you; you are such good friends. Although at the end of the film, facing the lake, you and Jean Genet restored warmth, being left outside is still so cruel.
Varda: You are right, but thinking differently, I have been pondering that perhaps not opening the door achieved a better effect. Maybe if he opened the door, we would just stand there like two old fools. It would not be a big deal; we would see each other from time to time.
I admire his work. He is very brave. Everyone knows his name, but not many understand him. Sticking to one's path is a courageous act. I do not know what happened, but now I feel that not opening the door was the right choice. Looking back, ending this film this way could not be better. Although at that time, I was very sad because the words he left on the door mentioned Jacques, stirring up my sorrow.
Did you send him a copy of the film after it was completed?
Varda: I sent it to him.
Do you think Jean-Luc Godard watched it?
Varda: (shrugs) Who knows? I really like this expression in French, "secrets and chewing gum," who knows? I have not heard anyone say that in a long time. I think Jean-Luc and I are the last survivors of what is called the French New Wave. Chabrol is gone, Resnais is gone, Demy is gone, Rivette is gone... even Jacques Doniol-Valcroze is gone; he was not a particularly famous director; I do not know if you have heard of him... I think after the sixties, Jean-Luc and I separated from this group of New Wave directors. I have not had much news from him. We often say that no news is good news, but I am not very sure if this saying is correct...
But it is not too bad. I feel that film is also an organism; it continues to evolve on its own. I also see more and more interesting directors. Jean Genet suggested we take a trip. He photographed people and pasted them on the departing train; he has been doing this for a long time. He took pictures of my eyes and my feet and pasted them on a train. I watched my eyes and feet head off into the distance, beginning a new journey. He sent me off like that; it is quite an interesting idea. That is a way of saying goodbye, watching me head off into the distance. Suddenly, I told myself, "We are starting a real journey. We are going to see Godard!" Once, Jean Genet told me I was lucky to meet Godard. We sought his consent, and we told him we would be filming; his assistant said it was fine. But I could not talk to him; perhaps I should have called him from outside the door. But never mind; that is my way of living; reality has already happened. Later, by the lake, I should... I do not know; I hope to recall those beautiful memories.
I do not know my true feelings. Everything is very natural; we simply recorded what happened. The funny thing is that my son Mathieu was with us too, which is strange. We filmed for a year and a half; he had no interest in this film at all. But that day, he came along, holding the second camera, filming me. I was very touched. After being rejected at Godard's door, he was the first to realize that things had changed; he came over to help, filming the ending by the lake. I was proud that Mathieu filmed those close-up shots for me; I was very happy. At the end of the film, we stayed together. We took a still from the film, and I told myself, "My daughter produced this film, and my son filmed parts of it for me. To some extent, this is the joy and happiness of being a filmmaker."