The three great cinemas of the world, it is generally agreed, are those of Hollywood, France, and Japan. Generalizations are dangerous, but in recent years, France seems to be in the lead. That may be because most new French films are made for adults, about adults. Upon the shoulders of Hollywood falls the weight of supplying the global market for action and violence. Hollywood also satisfies that market for France itself, leaving the field for grown-up films to the French.
France has a claim to have coinvented the cinema with some of the earliest filmmakers in the world. Scorsese’s Hugo (2011) introduced a new audience to the magic of Georges Méliès, whose works such as A Trip to the Moon (1902) showed a man delighted by the tricks he could play with special effects.
France also claims to have discovered Hollywood cinema, doing us a favor. The auteur theory, created by the critics and directors around the magazine Cahiers du Cinéma, celebrated well-made genre works that were dismissed as “B movies” by American critics, but praised by the French as masterworks. Such directors as Hawks, Sturges, Ford, and Minnelli joined a new pantheon.
From that period came forth the French New Wave, introducing a new group of French directors who were mostly critics for the magazine. In this e-book I’ve provided a sample of their films: Malle’s Au Revoir les Enfants; Godard’s Breathless; Truffaut’s The 400 Blows, Day for Night, and Jules and Jim; Rivette’s Le Belle Noiseuse; and Chabrol’s Le Boucher.
Then there are the great pioneers, most notably Jean Renoir, whose The Rules of the Game is often cited as one of a handful of the greatest of all films, and his Grand Illusion is often on the same lists. Luis Buñuel, from Spain, made films in Mexico and then made many contributions to the French cinema, of which I’ve suggested Belle de Jour and The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie.
No category exists that includes Jacques Tati, a great original, whose Mr. Hulot’s Holiday invents a way of drawing great humor from characters regarded fixedly with fascination and consternation. There is a pair of 1991 films here by Yves Robert, My Father’s Glory and My Mother’s Castle, both based on books by Marcel Pagnol. Together they make a remarkable impression, but are rarely seen today. They might be a discovery for you.
Two other films, The Hairdresser’s Husband and The Man on the Train, are by Patrice Leconte, a stand-alone original who likes characters who frankly embrace their eccentricities.
And what can we make of Caché, a spellbinding film with a great puzzle it circles but never is able to quite resolve. I was so incautious to try to explain it in a blog, and inspired tens of thousands of words from readers trying to set me, or each other, straight.
And there are several more. The pleasure of a little collection like this is in imagining readers finding treasure in the glory of French films and continuing to explore.
ROGER EBERT