confused flies
by Douglas Messerli
Agnès Varda (screenwriter and director) Les plages d'Agnès (The Beaches of Agnès) / 2008
One might argue, in fact, that although she is viewing this work through
the lens of her own life, it is more a poetic documentary about her life “gleaned”
through (one should recall that one of her most interesting films was about
“gleaners,” those people who sort through what the rest of the population
leaves behind, searching for anything that might be of value) than it is an
autobiography. She begins, in fact, on a beach of her childhood with a crew
placing both frames and mirrors horizontally and laid out upon the sand at various
angles, signifying the method of her filmmaking, suggesting that she will both
reflect upon and look through framed contexts in order to get to the heart of
the 80 years this “little old lady, pleasantly plump” has experienced and
achieved.
Varda
visits extras in her early films, lovingly allowing them, in the case of two
fisherman, to see their performances for the very first time. She, herself, has
photographed many of those she loved and admired. And when she doesn’t have a
photograph, she creates her acquaintances and the laborers she loved with bits
and pieces of their lives, a kind of bricolage
of memorabilia that brings those who are now gone from life.
As Roger Ebert pointed out in his 2008 review of the film, five years
before his death from cancer, throughout this film, Varda is seen walking
backward, as if receding from view in recognition of her own inevitable demise.
Yet, given her constant sense of wonderment, exploration, and humor, we
recognize that she, even if always a bit plump, has not truly become “little
old lady.” Rather, she’s a kind of mischievous force, poking around in the
debris of her own past for new ways of seeing and perceiving what it all meant.
As she alertly declares "I am alive, and I remember." I have never
seen “a little old lady,” while sailing alone a small boat down the Seine.
Much
of Varda’s life is connected with the sea. She thinks of nearly every male as a
potential Ulysses, a kind of wanderer. And throughout her childhood, living near
various bodies of water, she learned not only how to sail, but to weave nets
and tie knots—real-life talents that might almost be seen as metaphors for how
she later conceives her cinematic works and her life. She and husband Demy
bought an entire back-alley of several small, derelict shops, gradually redoing
them into a series of two story “rooms,” in which they lived separately and
apart from each other and their gifted children, Rosalie and Mathieu. One might
argue that even at home, Varda and Demy lived less within themselves than in a
kind of small community where they might call out for one another through open
windows.
What you won’t discover in this loving film are gossipy tidbits of
family life. Varda had already made a film before this, Jacquot, about her beloved husband as he was dying of AIDS (Demy
was also a kind of “wanderer,” often engaging in gay sex). For Varda, it seems
clear, the inner eccentricities of life do not matter as much as the way life
engages people and things in space and in spontaneous acts. And, in many
respects, it is that viewpoint that links her films with the French New Wave. Although she may not have
“hung out” with Jean-Paul Sartre or Simone de Beauvoir, hers is, nonetheless, a
kind of existentialist art, demonstrating what people do rather than merely what they claim to think. Varda never studied film and was no theorist; she worked by
instinct through her personal values, and these could take her in many
directions within different films or, sometimes, within the same work, which is
what excites us about her vision. Even memories, she insists, move in many
contradictory directions, flying “about me like confused flies.”
Los Angeles, October 15, 2018
Reprinted from World Cinema Review (October 2018).
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