Rivette & Daney on Cinema, Theatre, and the Allure of the “Bad” Film
A 1989 conversation between French filmmaker Jacques Rivette and critic Serge Daney reveals a deep exploration of cinematic form, its relationship to other art forms, and the surprising value found in artistic failure.
A pivotal discussion following the release of Rivette’s La Bande des quatre, the 1989 exchange, initially aired on the radio program Microfilms, broadened into a wider consideration of cinema’s connections to theatre and dance. This dialogue, further explored in Claire Denis’s 1990 documentary Jacques Rivette: le veilleur, offers a rare glimpse into the creative thought process of one of France’s most influential filmmakers.
The Enduring Appeal of Classical Theatre
The conversation quickly turned to Rivette’s clear preference for classical theatre. Daney questioned the director’s consistent return to playwrights like Racine, Marivaux, and Corneille, asking why he eschewed more modern voices such as Brecht or Pinter. Rivette’s response was pragmatic, citing both practical and artistic considerations. He explained that utilizing classical works helped avoid complex copyright issues. More importantly, these well-known plays allowed for the presentation of fragments without requiring a full narrative explanation.
“Everyone knows the principle of Andromaque, this chain of love learned in high school,” Rivette noted, referencing the play’s familiar structure, which also served as a backdrop in his film L’Amour fou. He deliberately avoided any direct correlation between Marivaux’s La Double Inconstance and the plot of his own film, prioritizing thematic resonance over literal adaptation.
Actors as “Saltimbanques” in a Changing Market
The discussion then shifted to the role of actors in both theatre and cinema. Both Daney and Rivette lamented what they perceived as a prevailing disrespect for performers. They highlighted Patrice Chéreau as an exception, praising his willingness to engage with actors, perhaps because of his own experience as a performer.
In contrast, they observed that commercially successful films often functioned without strong acting performances, citing The Big Blue and Bagdad Café as examples. These films, they argued, relied on myth and scenario rather than nuanced character work. Both filmmakers and actors, they concluded, were essentially “saltimbanques”—traveling performers—navigating an increasingly volatile market.
Dance: An Unfulfilled Cinematic Dream
Daney posited an intriguing idea: that Rivette possessed the soul of a choreographer. The filmmaker readily agreed, acknowledging his long-held fascination with dance. He pointed to Noroît, where several roles were filled by dancers, and revealed plans for a future project—the fourth in an unfinished series—that would have involved a collaboration with choreographer Carolyn Carlson, blending music and contemporary dance.
The conversation then questioned why French cinema seemed so resistant to incorporating dance. Was it a matter of a preference for the “fixed image”? These questions remained open-ended, highlighting a perceived gap in French cinematic expression.
The Sculpture of Film vs. The Plasticity of Theatre
Rivette drew a compelling distinction between the fixed nature of film and the inherent flexibility of theatre. “Unlike theatre, which possesses an infinite ‘plasticity’ and can be reinterpreted endlessly—like the plays of Molière—a film is there, fixed like a sculpture,” he explained. Daney admired Rivette’s articulation of this concept, acknowledging the unique constraints and fascinations of the cinematic form. While a film can be copied, it cannot be truly reinterpreted in the same way a theatrical performance can. He further elaborated that cinema occupies “three dimensions like sculpture”—two in space and one in time—a quality that both captivates and limits.
Cinema as Addiction and the Value of Failure
The conversation took a personal turn when Daney inquired about Rivette’s seemingly boundless appetite for film, asking how he managed to see everything released. Rivette’s response was blunt: “It’s a drug.” He confessed to being “addicted to being in front of a screen on which shadows accompanied by sound are projected.”
Interestingly, Rivette found more stimulation in bad films than in good ones. He argued that successful films were merely “tonic,” proving cinema’s continued existence without offering new ideas. It was in the failures, he said, that one could identify “missed ideas to recover” and “lost actors to save.” “I love to see bad films,” he declared, ultimately concluding that “the only thing interesting in cinema remains the surprise, good or bad.”
