If I could properly describe the experience of discovering Jacques Rivette‘s films, I’d compare it to entering a room — a big one; sometimes a very big one — in which a conspiratorial game of deception and obfuscation is already underway between a group of handsome men and beautiful women. (Mostly the latter; sometimes only the latter.) While most directors ask you to sit and observe, you’re here invited to nestle somewhere between spectator and active participant, a patron whose close observation compensates for (or enhances) the fact that the plot doesn’t make total sense and associations between players requires some inference. By the time it ends, you’ll (ideally) come away with, if nothing else, the sense that something thoroughly, almost aggressively different has taken place — a mix of “well, what happened there?” with the desire to enter once more. And then again, and then again, and then again.
Or maybe something along those lines. Those who’ve been fortunate enough to experience any one of them need not bother with my metaphor, as I think the mark they leave begins speaking for itself: those who love Rivette deeply, truly love Rivette, and, as much as an investment in his work might signal the willingness to go outside the bounds of cinematic canon, that marks him as one without substitutes.
There was never much reason to believe this will change, and such is the imprint that it’s no different in light of his passing today, at the age of 87, in his Paris home, as a result of the Alzheimer’s that had afflicted him for a number of years. (Producer Martine Marignac and French culture minister Fleur Pellerin confirmed the news this morning.) It can really only go up: despite being an outgrowth of the Cahiers group that also calls Godard and Truffaut its own — he was greatly admired by both, seen as the most cinephilic and wild — Rivette’s work has been perpetually, bizarrely difficult to find within the United States, yet there are just enough in some sort of regular release to spark the love in another. (Arrow Films have made a fine contribution here — only the Out 1 cuts are region-locked — and a list of streaming titles is here.) With him, it sometimes only takes a first brush.
Other obituaries will do a better job laying the historical land — Dave Kehr‘s New York Times piece is, as per usual, the finest I’ve looked at today — and I don’t feel a need to discuss my personal relationship in great detail. In short, if only for the sake of explaining why this passing means so much: last year was, for me, largely marked by Rivette, whose oeuvre I tracked down and watched nearly in toto with a fervor I can’t recall having since the earliest days of cinephilia, finding each either a wonder or at least worthwhile of consideration, and never a waste of time.
What I’ll instead do is link to some worthwhile material regarding a man whose cinematic footprint goes deeper than the movies he made. Marignac, speaking to the Times, has said, “All of Jacques’s life was cinema, and what I hope for is that his films are seen, seen again and discovered by a new generation who maybe doesn’t know them.” Thus, first some links to some material written / compiled by yours truly: an appreciation of Kino’s recent Blu-ray of his great Le Pont du Nord; an interview he conducted with Jean Renoir in the late ’60s; a review / attempt to come to terms with his staggering 13-hour epic, Out 1, perhaps the best film I saw in 2015 (good news: it can be streamed and purchased); and his earliest surviving work, a delightful 30-minute short titled Le Coup du Berger.
There’s been an indication that Rivette was the most active moviegoer of his French new Wave brethren, the best evidence of which is an incredible Les Inrockuptibles interview from 1997 in which he shared thoughts on numerous films, from Rossellini’s Europa ’51 to then-current works such as Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me (“the craziest film in the history of cinema”), Funny Games (“What a disgrace, just a complete piece of shit!”), and Showgirls (“one of the great American films of the last few years”). I can’t think of any director interview that’s so fun, so odd — how many have ever uttered the words “Hou Hsiao-hsien and James Cameron, same problem”? — and, given his advancing age and high level of productivity, quite so inspiring.
For an immense wealth of interviews, an extensive cataloging of his films (including the notice of alternate versions) and writing, free access to the latter, and other bits and pieces, explore this comprehensive fansite. Meanwhile, a 1977 anthology of interviews and criticism edited by Jonathan Rosenbaum can be downloaded, which was found via Keyframe‘s fine collection. If you have a Region 2 player, this amazing collection will be to your interests.
I leave everyone these clips from Jacques Rivette: The Night Watchman, a 1990 documentary directed by Claire Denis, and a Hulu stream of his debut feature, Paris Belongs to Us, which Criterion will release in March. The most one can do, especially in the case of a still-underexposed master, is watch and discover. And so: