When Maurice Pialat died, in 2003, too young at the age of 77, Film Comment called him “the most important French filmmaker since Robert Bresson.” This spring, the magazine devoted the better part of an issue to giving this giant of French filmmaking his due here. We are pleased to present Pialat's films to a Bay Area audience, as part of this rediscovery of a director whose career, like his art, was carved by going against the grain.
A contemporary of the French New Wave directors, Pialat nevertheless came to filmmaking a decade later, thus missing the “wave” that might have made his work, so full of the “shock of being alive,” as Kent Jones wrote, better known. Pialat's films are centered in the less glamorous quarters of French family life, often with autobiographical elements and featuring little-known actors (he discovered Sandrine Bonnaire as a teenager for A nos amours, and found the “unknown actor” in Gérard Depardieu many times). He works in the medium close-up, the shot distance that allows the most intimacy and access with no comforting egress. (When he breaks from this, the effect can be overwhelming.) If his dramas are intensely focused, this is not to say they are tightly harnessed, quite the opposite: he edits for emotional, not narrative, coherence. Pialat's searing intensity and mercurial volubility, both as director and actor, can keep us on the edge of our seats. What makes these films drill to the core of truth is the sense that the actors are inhabiting the moment, not the script, and that surprise will ensue. As Jacques Dutronc, who starred in Van Gogh, said, “His films are moving paintings, not quite dry.”
Judy Bloch