This past weekend, I attended what the New York Times has called the “holy grail of film screenings.” Out 1, a 1971 film by French New Wave director Jacques Rivette, screened at the Gene Siskel Film Center on May 26 and 27. This twelve-hour film is comprised of eight “episodes,” originally created for French television. After its rejection, however, Rivette explained that the ideal viewing situation would be one such as that which I experienced: two days, a few breaks, complete immersion.
Not surprisingly, the event drew a number of enthusiastic cinephiles, notable film critics, and New Wave addicts. This was the big league. The Chicago premiere: only the second event of its kind in the United States. For me, attending this screening had far less to do with the movie than those next to whom I would be noshing my overpriced popcorn.
A scene-nobody myself, I am lucky enough to know some people who know some people, allowing me to silently infiltrate the thrilling world of film critics. (Hey – to each her own…) Between the two dinner breaks and the quite necessary post-epic-screening-drinks, I had the pleasure of joining a group of fairly notable writers, once including Mr. Jonathan Rosenbaum himself, arguably the Rivette critic, though I doubt he noticed me at the end of the table, wide eyed, ears perked, if silently recovering from the events past two days.
The conversations were blissful, agitated, ecstatic, frustrated, confused. These are pros. We compare notes about character affiliations, double names, and possible future plot points. “I think we learn more about the Juliet Berto character tomorrow.” Everyone keeps score in his or her head. Because, though I’ve come to see this film for my own communal reasons, we’re all here to movie-go. That’s the bottom line. And we’re serious.
For twelve hours, give or take about 30 minutes, depending on slight changes in projection frame rate, hundreds of people gather from across the country to stare straight ahead, entering into a social situation removed from our shared presence by time, place, and narrative. It felt like we’d gone to Paris 1971 for the weekend, spending time with friends of friends, getting wrapped up in a story that, for lack of conventional editing, seemed to almost be presented in real time.
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Though I liked the film as a whole, I think all viewers would admit that there were, in fact, “boring parts.” At one point, we saw a 45-minute scene of a theatre troupe rehearsing. They do not speak, but crawl, moan, and rub paint on one another. Forty-five minutes. After scenes such as this, the audience was delighted by the comic relief brought by Colin, or “le jeune sourd-muet” played by the dreamy Jean-Pierre Léaud (New Wave fans know him from Truffaut’s The 400 Blows and scores of films thereafter).
For the first couple of episodes, we see humorously placed scenes of Colin entering a café and making the rounds, delivering to each table an envelope reading: “I am deaf and mute. I bring you a message of destiny. Thanks!” Each envelope is also stuffed with a randomly torn page from a book. Colin then revisits each table, playing an obnoxious blast on his harmonica until the café patrons pay attention and give him a few francs. Along with these interactions, we see Colin’s solitary life in his apartment, silently stuffing and stamping envelopes, refusing to communicate with even his landlady.
As the film progresses, a mysterious character hands Colin a note that sends him on a strange chase for information. Throughout the following episodes, Colin attempts to uncover the secrets of an underground conspiratorial group: the Thirteen. The event acts as a bridge between Colin’s daily hustling and the stacks of books he keeps in his tiny room. His clues are literary. The group, as well as the film itself, refers to a Balzac novel.
Through his amateur detective work, Colin transforms from a false deaf-mute to a wannabe conspirator, memorably chanting: EQUIPAGE! EQUIPAGE! EQUIPAGE! (French for “crew”) down the street as he nears the end of his search. Through an unspoken, deaf-mute-comprehensible message, Colin is brought from his little room to community. Notably, his entrance is made through specific goals: he wants to learn of the Thirteen, he courts one of its members, he attempts to gain press credentials in order to obtain more information.
We all sat for 12 hours, watching other people interact, watching this story, theatrical rehearsals, and amusing interludes of Jean-Pierre Léaud addressing the camera, wagging his finger, announcing to the audience which way he will go next.
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Upon reflection, Colin’s function in Out 1 illuminates the paradoxical social quality of these screenings and modern life in general. We have all decided to unite in one place, at one time, to see one print of one very long film. Though this screening can be called a social event, we spend most of our time concentrating on images of people who enacted a story 36 years ago, and delighting in the shorter scenes of a young, curious man who wants to become a deeply socially entrenched conspirator.
So his initial draw – his cutely enacted le jeune sourd-muet, brings me to a contemporary application. From Walter Benjamin to Rivette’s Colin to our own Julie Rudder, the idea of modern life’s aversion to interpersonal communication in a crowded urban world remains. I think Colin’s transformation is a particularly engaging example of this phenomenon, and a story of how intrigue trumped a desire to be completely uncommunicative.
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Inspired by this character, this film, and this screening, I decided to experiment with the idea of being verbally closed off from those with whom I interact and simultaneously trying to engage them. I thought of craigslist’s ever popular missed connections. Now, if we see someone who interests us, it would almost be strange to address them directly. We make eye contact, maybe exchange a bit of small talk, and pledge to check the “MCs” when we get home. Missed connections allow us to factor out the same verbal communication as Colin’s con. So why are we so interested in this deaf-mute person we meet in a public space? How do we know he or she is at all engaging? Is it extra communication? Less? A shift in form? Does participation in this non-space online make meeting a stranger seem less intimidating? More? How about dangerous? Most importantly, does it make co-existing with lots of people interesting?
It could be argued that finding someone in a Benjaminian world of too many people to care reclaims the thrill of pre-urban interaction. You two now exist in a space that is separate from the city. Your missed connection occurred in a real place, but what was missed has been found in a very particular theoretical space. It has an address (though it begins with http…) and only you two belong there. It is your posted missed connection.
This may be the appeal. This may be the subconscious appeal. Obviously, a large part of the appeal is that you may again see someone to whom you were attracted and too shy to approach, and you may, at some point in time, have sex with that person, but you can always dig a little deeper with these things.
So, mentally prepared, settling into the psychological shoes of Léaud’s Colin, I hit the El lines, looking for missed connections, armed with messages of destiny.
Results to be posted soon!
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