92 | Claire Denis
foreclosed, or at the very least deferred. We have no idea where Théo
is going, only that he is walking in those very uncomfortable shoes.
We then cut to Daïga, who is driving out of the city. We have no idea
where she is going either, although following the circle of the film, one
assumes she is returning to Lithuania. Daïga is, at least, on the move.
The film began with her arrival in the city in the early morning hours,
and it concludes with her departure at night, now with the money she
took from Camille’s room. Daïga wanted to stay in Paris, and Théo
wanted to leave. If their dreams have been stalled, their roles are not
exactly reversed. In the end, the white woman’s narration—Daïga as a
symmetrical frame for the film, whose discoveries match those of the
film’s spectator—provides closure. In a somewhat perverse sense, her
curiosity has paid off—she has made some money in Paris. But we are
left with the haunting sense that the price paid for her mobility is the
foreclosure of the dreams of Théo. The most significant encounter of
bodies in motion in the film may well be this one, realized not in the
flesh but through film editing, making visible the ways in which bodies
in motion are always relative.
Beau travail may well be the ultimate film about strangerhood, since
members of the French Foreign Legion are strangers wherever they
go. The film was conceived as a contribution to a television series on
“foreign lands,” produced by Pierre Chevalier and Patrick Grandperret
for ARTE. Denis used the telefilm as an opportunity to consider not
someone’s travels to a foreign land but rather “the notion of foreignness”
(Renouard and Wajeman 2001: 2). The process of thinking through
the notion took Denis and her usual co-screenwriter, Jean-Pôl Fargeau,
to two poems by Melville as well as his novella Billy Budd, Sailor, on
the one hand, and to the East African country of Djibouti (where she
lived as a child) and the French Foreign Legion, on the other. From
the outset, the project was beset with difficulties, since not only did
Denis not receive any help from officials in Djibouti (whether French
or Djiboutian), but also she had to contend with a swirl of rumors about
the film: “What I heard was a real shock: that I was going to make an
anti-French army film, then a porn film about Legionnaires and young
Ethiopian girls, and then a film about homosexuality in the Legion”
(Renouard and Wajeman 2001: 5).
Denis worked with her usual collaborators on the film (Fargeau, Ag-
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nès Godard), and she also worked with choreographer Bernardo Montet,
who was an integral part of the preparation of the film. In Paris before
shooting started, he worked with the actors who play the Legionnaires.
Denis and Fargeau also worked a bit differently from usual on the preparation
of the script; Fargeau wrote Galoup’s notebooks, which became,
as Denis says, like a “libretto” for the film. Montet’s choreography was
not added on to an existing script but was, rather, essential to the conception
of the film from the outset (Renouard and Wajeman 2001: 5).
The film has had a phenomenal reception, and it has been shown at
more international festivals and received more commentary than any
of Denis’s other films. Some critics seem to have discovered Denis as a
serious filmmaker on the basis of Beau travail.6 Calling I Can’t Sleep a
film that offered an “interesting portrait of a Paris neighborhood” but
nonetheless “wallowed in a kind of professional morbidity,” and Nénette
and Boni a “sicko story about two teenage siblings in Marseilles,”
Jonathan Rosenbaum asks, in his glowing review of Beau travail: “Did
previous Denis films have a poetry I didn’t notice or appreciate, or did
she make a quantum leap as an artist in Beau Travail? Probably some
of both” (2000: 4).
The preoccupations of Beau travail seem to me relatively consistent
with Denis’s earlier work; what has changed in this film is the level of
abstraction, on the one hand, and the increasingly deliberate focus on
the male body, on the other. As in other works by Denis, male bodies
are investigated and the particular bonds between men are explored,
and the complex encounters between Africa and France are central. But
in Beau travail there is even less reliance on dialogue than in previous
films, and a more emphatic reliance on bodies as they move through
beautiful but desolate landscapes. If the music of Kali, in I Can’t Sleep,
conjures up the desire for Martinique, in Beau travail the music has
much more of a counterpoint function in relationship to what is seen
on screen; and if dance has always been a privileged motif in Denis’s
films, in Beau travail it is far more than a motif. Rather, the entire film
functions as a kind of choreographed ritual.
There is a core narrative in Beau travail, one that is borrowed from
Herman Melville’s Billy Budd as well as Jean-Luc Godard’s Le Petit
soldat (1960). It draws as well on an entire tradition of the iconography
of the French Foreign Legion, from Jean Gabin in La Bandéra (directed
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by Julien Duvivier, 1935) to Gary Cooper in Beau Geste (directed by William
Wellman, 1939). Two narrative threads are particularly important.
First, the triangular structure of Billy Budd is adapted to tell the tale of
desire, envy, and jealousy. Galoup (Denis Lavant) adores Bruno Forestier
(Michel Subor), the commander of his Legion outpost in Djibouti.
A new recruit, Gilles Sentain (Grégoire Colin), attracts the attention of
Forestier when he performs a daring rescue after a helicopter crash.
Galoup immediately perceives Sentain as a threat, and Galoup jumps
on an opportunity to expel Sentain from the group. When a soldier is
punished by Galoup, Sentain comes to his aid. The punishment for
Sentain is banishment, and it becomes a death sentence when Galoup
provides Sentain with a broken compass. Yet Sentain is found by members
of the Djiboutian community, who take care of him; it is unclear
if he dies or survives. Galoup is then punished by expulsion from the
Legion. The film unfolds, more or less, as Galoup’s recollection of the
drama that led to his expulsion and, we are led to believe, suicide. But
never is the relationship between Galoup’s memories and what “really”
happened made clear. It isn’t that Galoup is necessarily an “unreliable”
narrator but that his narration is the very symptom the film explores.
The second narrative thread is suggested by the very first words
that Galoup speaks in the film: “Marseille, end of February. I have
time before me now.” The second sentence cites the last words spoken
by Bruno Forestier, the main character in Godard’s Le Petit soldat: “I
have time before me now.” With actor Michel Subor playing Bruno
Forestier more than three decades later, Beau travail is a kind of homage
to Godard’s film. In Le Petit soldat, Forestier is a political wanderer
against the backdrop of the French Algerian War (the film was banned
for a number of years because of its allusions to torture). “I told myself,”
says Denis, “that after the film, when he leaves the army and kills the
correspondent for the FLN [Front de Libération Nationale, the Algerian
independence movement], Forestier joined the French Foreign
Legion” (Lalanne and Larcher 2000: 51). Subor’s character is not the
only homage to Godard’s film, for the very structure of Beau travail
cites the narrative device of voice-over used throughout Le Petit soldat.
Galoup, not Forestier, becomes the literal “voice” of the film, although
Denis, like Godard, does not attribute any particular authority to the
voice-over. To the contrary: while we are aware in the film that Galoup
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is narrating the events that led to his expulsion from the Legion, the
precise connections between those events are left ambiguous.
The citation of Bruno Forestier is equally a citation of the New
Wave. While the two texts that inform the film, Billy Budd and Le Petit
soldat, are obviously different, one could also consider the practice of
citation in Beau travail as a reading of one text through the other and,
in particular, of the homosocial and homoerotic triangle of Melville’s
narrative through the New Wave’s (and especially Godard’s) explorations
of heterosexual desire, particularly insofar as the woman’s place, as
icon, is concerned. Le Petit soldat was the first film by Godard to feature
Anna Karina, his wife at the time, who continued to appear in his films
as a beautiful woman who becomes both a love object and a figure that
encourages, to varying degrees, an examination of the very status of
woman-as-icon. Similarly, the function of the heterosexual couple in New
Wave cinema—embodied by Subor and Karina—is read through the
homosocial bonds between men so central to Billy Budd.7 After noting
that “the mythic coupling of Man and Woman, a New Wave staple,” is
“alive and well” in the films of many contemporary French directors,
Kent Jones says, in his review of Beau travail, that “one of the many
felicities of post–New Wave cinema” is the “suggestion of cinema without
a strict sexual orientation” (2000: 26). In other words, then, Subor and
Bruno Forestier also bring to Beau travail a point of reference for an
opening up of the Legion to heterosexual desire beyond the clichés of
the Legionnaire—or, for that matter, of the woman’s traditional place
in the Legionnaire narrative, the woman who waits, or follows.
The place of women in Beau travail—”women are in the film for
sexuality, but they aren’t a part of the world of the Legionnaires” says
Denis (Lalanne and Larcher 2000: 52)—is one of the most pronounced
examples in the film of how abstraction both conjures up the traditional
view of the Legion and repudiates it at the same time. For the women
may not be a central part of the Legionnaires’ world, but they are definitely
part of the spectators’ world. All of the women in the film are
black, and they fall into two distinct categories, conjured in the beginning
of the film in the contrast between the women on the dance floor
and the women whom we see in the train—between, that is, women
who let loose, who mug for the camera, whose dress is a combination
of European and African, who dance, and women whose movements
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are restrained, who observe the Legionnaires (and, at the conclusion of
the film, care for the near-dead Sentain), and who wear traditional garb,
their heads covered. While we see both groups of women interacting
with men (the first with the Legionnaires, the second with other Djiboutians),
there is also a sense of a communal female identity. The women
at the disco provide a sense of a female world that could be construed
as liberating (sensual, full of movement, laughter) or constraining (they
are the providers of pleasure for men). The more traditional women are,
perhaps ironically, more defined as independent entities.
Denis has alluded to the number of prostitutes in Djibouti, but the
women whom we see at the disco in this film are not coded stereotypically
as prostitutes. They very definitely signify pleasure, however, and
they stand in sharp contrast to the women who function as somewhat
awed and perplexed observers of the Legionnaires. Yet these two groups
of women share one characteristic, and that is that they function as
observers within the film, witnesses. For Jonathan Rosenbaum, this is
the aspect of Beau travail that most clearly marks the film as a film by a
woman director. “Denis uses African women to subtly impose an ironic
frame around the story; from beginning to end, they figure implicitly
and unobtrusively as a kind of mainly mute Greek chorus—whether
they’re dancing in the disco, speaking in the market, appearing briefly
as the girlfriends of some legionnaires (including Galoup), or serving
as witnesses to part of the action” (2000: 4).
Rosenbaum’s assessment is astute, and the function of women as
witnesses is one that has been characteristic of almost all of Denis’s
work, from France, the observer of her past in Chocolat, to Martine, the
hidden observer of Alain’s frenzied dance in U.S. Go Home, to Daïga,
the detective, of sorts, in I Can’t Sleep. And Denis’s own position as a
filmmaker is one of witnessing, of observing worlds not necessarily her
own. Denis’s authorial signature is very much tied up in the ways in
which women function as observers, yet it is also useful to see Denis’s
work in this context as having a lineage with that of Godard. If any single
director’s work has been productive in exploring the ways in which formal
innovation and gender politics both inform and resist each other, and
the ways in which representations of women and femininity evoke yet
refuse to be contained within the polarities of a “celebration” versus
a “critique” of dominant iconography, it is surely Godard’s. Denis, of
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course, belongs to a different generation, and she brings an entirely different
sensibility to the representation of gender—one in which, most
notably, not all women (or men) are white. But consistently, as Claire
Denis’s films ask us to look, and especially to look differently at male
bodies, we are asked to consider different configurations of the woman
who looks.
In response to an interviewer’s comment apropos of Beau travail,
“You film men as erotic objects,” Denis replied: “Not exclusively. In any
case, I asked the actors to be aware of that so that we could think about
it together. I was afraid of that ‘erotic object’ aspect of the film, tank
tops, tanned skin. I wanted us to work together to maintain a distance
from that. For example, filming their clothes drying on the line was a
way of de-objectifying bodies” (Lalanne and Larcher 2000: 53). The male
bodies in the film may well be masculine. Yet in their rituals of dance on
the beach or in the ironing of their uniforms, they are present in such
a way that the dividing lines between masculinity and femininity seem
tenuous, at least insofar as male bodies are concerned. Perhaps most
strikingly, the beginning of the film leads us to an unveiling of the male
body, a process generally much more associated with the female body.
It is instructive, in this regard, to look at the one space in the film
where male and female bodies are presented together, and that is on
the dance floor of the disco. The beginning of Beau travail presents a
series of sharply contrasting images and sounds. The film opens with
a tracking shot, accompanied by the Legionnaires’ song, of a wall with
drawings of mountains, or cliffs, and outlines of soldiers, and what appears
to be a flag. Formally, this opening tracking shot is difficult to
read. Largely because of the sound track, the Legion is evoked, yet the
image retains a very abstract quality. The tracking shot is ethereal and
concrete at the same time. We then cut to the dance floor of the disco,
to the accompaniment of Tarkan’s song “Simarik,” a Turkish pop song
with a pulsating beat. Bodies are shot at close range, and the camera
moves through the crowd of dancers on the floor, all of them African
women and (mostly white) men from the Legion. The women whom we
see initially introduce us to a radically different kind of space and image
than the tracking shot that opens the film; they laugh, they move, and
they seem to be having a genuinely good time. No single woman or single
Legionnaire takes center stage, even though three main characters are
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introduced in this scene. While the Legionnaires are dancing, Grégoire
Colin, as Gilles Sentain, walks across the dance floor as if preoccupied
with something else. The camera follows him, and when he moves out
of frame we are introduced to Rahel (Marta Tafesse Kassa) whom we
see dancing with Galoup (Denis Lavant).
Tarkan’s song is sometimes called the “kissy song” because of how its
lyrics are punctuated by exaggerated sounds of loud kisses, and the scene
in the disco ends with one of the soldiers mimicking the kiss, approaching
but not actually kissing the woman he is dancing with. We then cut to a
train station where a man, on the telephone, is saying “Djibouti.” We see
the interior of a train. It too is populated by both men and women, all
of them African, and the women stand in sharp contrast to the women
we have just seen in the disco, for they are all modestly dressed, their
heads covered with scarves, and still. This is another tracking shot, thus
marking a symmetry with the first shot of the film, and here we see the
landscape through the window of the train. We then cut to a series of
deserted objects in the landscape, and the camera then tracks once again,
showing us, first, the shadows of the men and then the men themselves,
moving in what is a kind of dance, and certainly a choreography of
movement, although once again, in sharp contrast to the dance we see
in the disco. These are solitary movements, almost physical practices
of meditation. The unveiling of the men’s bodies is preceded by a void,
first by army artillery in disuse, and then by the shadows of the men, as
if their traces precede them.
While the film observes men’s bodies as they go about the rituals
of dailiness, including everything from ironing to dance, visual echoes
of the women that we see at the beginning scene in the disco appear
throughout the film. Galoup’s narration, his diary as well as his voiceover,
gives the film both its substance and its ambiguity, and the passage
from remembrance to fantasy is never clear. One of the recurring
images in his evocation is the figure of Rahel, who is presented as
Galoup’s steady girlfriend, although this is not actually stated until near
the conclusion of the film. Images of women, including Rahel, dancing
in the disco appear at several moments in the film, seemingly part of
Galoup’s mental landscape of Djibouti. Rahel’s function becomes more
complex approximately thirty minutes into the film—before, that is, the
actual events that cause Galoup’s expulsion are revealed. We see Rahel,
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dressed very casually, without makeup, in a man’s shirt—perhaps one
of Galoup’s—hanging up laundry to dry. Suddenly Galoup appears, in
uniform, to help her. The scene suggests a dailiness to their relationship,
and we see Rahel intercut with images of the Legionnaires hanging up
their laundry. Then we see Galoup ironing a dark shirt (presumably the
same shirt he will wear at the conclusion of the film); it isn’t clear if he
is in Marseille or Djibouti. As if in his mind’s eye, a beautiful close-up
of Rahel appears, her face suspended against the dark background.
We then see Galoup, in Djibouti, as a street vendor approaches him;
Galoup buys what appears to be perfume, and we see him approach
Rahel, asleep on a bed, and put the box in her hands. She doesn’t awaken,
but we then see a startling image of Rahel, in close-up, as she stares
directly into the camera (the effect is not unlike when Anna Karina, as
Nana, stares directly into the camera in Godard’s Vivre sa vie) (fig. 20).
Quickly we return to the disco, where Rahel is dancing along with the
group of women, and a shot of Galoup, watching her, is inserted. It is
obvious, in these brief appearances, that Rahel functions as an object
of desire for Galoup, and it would be easy to see her as a stereotypical
evocation of Africa as sensuality, pleasure, and comfort, and of woman
as the promise of heterosexual completion. It appears as though Rahel’s
Figure 20: Rahel in Beau travail
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function is primarily as a sexual object. Later in the film, we see Rahel in
conversation with a female friend, who asks about Rahel’s relationship
with Galoup. The two women talk and giggle, and the sounds of their
conversation continue over a shot of Galoup, as if he were in the next
room listening to them.
The presentation of the two women is startlingly different from how
we have seen Rahel thus far. Rahel appears in casual attire, while her
friend’s head is covered in a white scarf. This is the first time in the film
that two kinds of women—one associated with the disco, one associated
with traditional Djiboutian society—have been seen not only in
the same frame but also in intimate conversation with each other. But
perhaps more striking is the image in the background: a large image of
the Madonna and child. Rahel’s head is in symmetry with that of the
Madonna, and her friend’s, with the child (fig. 21). What are we to make
of this sudden evocation of Rahel as a Madonna?
A partial reply is to be found in the journey of another female figure
in the film, one who belongs to the more traditional category of woman.
One of the first views we have of the town near where the Legionnaires
are stationed occurs when we see what appears to be a completely extraneous
event: a woman carrying rolled-up rugs descends from a minivan
Figure 21: Rahel and a friend in Beau travail
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and walks into a building. Inside the building, she converses with another
woman, and they discuss the sale of a rug, made with thirteen stripes,
which the woman made herself. On its own terms, this brief scene is not
unlike those moments in Denis’s films where a small, seemingly unrelated
detail provides an evocative sense of contrast. But the woman in question,
who is selling the rugs, reappears near the conclusion of the film. In the
desert, a group of Djiboutians stop when they see the body of Sentain,
near death, on the ground. Inside their van, this same woman appears,
now to nurture Sentain back to health. This woman evokes the image
of the “cosmic wet nurse” in Paul Jorion’s discussion of white people in
relationship to Africa (1988). Not only is she a fundamental part of the
local economy, she is also, literally, a savior (figs. 22, 23). Interestingly,
the film draws upon two clichéd images of Africa in the feminine—the
exotic sexual being on the one hand, the nurturing traditional mother on
the other—in order to complicate the opposition from within. Beneath
the fantasy of the love object, Rahel, and of the woman as nurturing
savior, is the common bond of the white man’s absolute dependence
upon the images he creates to assure him of his authority.
Beau travail concludes with the frenzied dance of Galoup on the disco
floor that we have seen, intermittently, throughout the film. The dance
seems both regimented and wild at the same time. If, in the previous
scene, we are led to believe that Galoup is about to commit suicide, this
concluding dance suggests another way to imagine the male body. There
is, after all, a connection between the last two scenes. The last image we
see of Galoup’s body before the dance shows Galoup’s arm in close-up,
a vein throbbing. In the final scene, the vitality, the pulsating energy, of
that detail explodes. If the film suggests, however briefly, that there are
ways to imagine the breakdown of the whore/Madonna stereotype in
relationship to women, no such possibility exists in relationship to Galoup.
His pulsating body, whether throbbing slightly in the contemplation of
suicide or performing frenetically on the dance floor, cannot escape the
dualities of regimentation and desire, duty and passion.8
Denis’s collaboration with cinematographer Agnès Godard has created
a particular style of representing bodies in motion. The tracking
shot is visible in virtually all of the films where they have collaborated
(which means practically every film directed by Denis). In Chocolat,
the transition from present to past is made on the road, as the camera
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Figure 23: The Djiboutian woman in Beau travail
Figure 22: The Djiboutian woman in Beau travail
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Seeing Others | 103
shifts from the adult France in a car moving down the highway to her
as a child, sitting on the back of the family truck with Protée, observing
the passing landscape. In Nénette and Boni, our first introduction to
Boni occurs inside a rapidly moving car. In classic, traditional terms,
the tracking shot is literally a shot “on track,” that is, where the camera
moves, but on a fixed support. (Interestingly, the French term—le
travelling—emphasizes the effect more than the literal support.) In
Denis’s films, the tracking shot is far more complex, for it often moves
“off track,” as it were, veering wildly (as in the car with Boni). Usually
the tracking shot implies a kind of measured distance, and we see
plenty of such images in Denis’s films, particularly in the passage of
trains or cars through landscape or cityscape. But just as frequently, the
tracking shot is used at close range, sometimes (as in No Fear, No Die)
created by a handheld (or shoulder-held) camera, and sometimes as a
way of capturing the fleeting connections between strangers (as in the
opening of Nénette and Boni when the con man tries to sell counterfeit
telephone cards).
Now one could say that the tracking shot loses any particular meaning
when it is defined in such a loose way. Isn’t it enough to say that the
camera moves in Claire Denis’s films? That her films provide, through
intricate, sometimes dizzying camera movement, superbly complex
variations on the plan-séquence, the single shot in which comings and
goings are recorded in constant shifting cinematic space? Put another
way, is the insistence on the tracking shot a mere formality, in both senses
of the term? The tracking shot is not necessarily the most important
element of cinematic writing in Denis’s work, but in these two films, it
has a particular function having to do, precisely, with the dynamics of
witnessing, of “strangerhood,” and of French film history.
The tracking shot inspired Jean-Luc Godard’s famous declaration
that the tracking shot (his specific point of reference is Alain Resnais
and Marguerite Duras’s 1959 film Hiroshima mon amour) is a “question
of morality.” Tracking shots call attention to the very fact of the cinema,
to traveling, to moving through the world. In response to Eric Rohmer’s
comment that one can admire Hiroshima mon amour and still find it
jarring in places, and to Jacques Doniol-Valcrozes’s query whether this
discomfort is “moral or aesthetic,” Godard replied: “It’s the same thing.
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Tracking shots are a question of morality” (Domarchi et al. 1959; rpt.
1985: 62). More relevant, perhaps, to the tracking shot in Denis’s work is
Jacques Rivette’s pointed criticism of a film by Gillo Pontecorvo, Kapo,
in which a woman commits suicide in a concentration camp, and the film
tracks forward to show the dead body and to isolate an extended hand
as a kind of aesthetic flourish. “The man who decided to compose this
forward tracking shot,” writes Rivette, “deserves nothing but contempt”
(1961: 55).
Both of these observations—one in which the tracking shot is praised,
the other in which it is condemned—are part of the project of rethinking
the cinema so central to the New Wave. Throughout the decades
since the late 1950s and early 1960s, this rethinking of the cinema has
been given a variety of names and definitions—the politics of form,
cinematic écriture, political formalism, and, more recently, the politics
of location.
The tracking shot has come to stand emblematically as the intersection
of the physical presence of the camera and the notion of some kind
of position, conscious or unconscious, a place for the spectator. Interestingly,
Denis commented on the tracking shot by saying that “for me, the
morality of the tracking shot has to be shared with the actor, so that the
person interpreting the role be free in relationship to the fiction. There
is always an element of ‘and as for him . . .’” (Jousse part 3). Denis has
often spoken of the close relationship she develops with actors, of the
“solidarity” she regards as an ideal relationship between director and
actor. Of course, this particular relationship does not apply only to the
tracking shot, but the tracking shot has come to stand for a particular
fact of cinema, the fact of moving through space, of creating a mobile
vision in which the director’s view is concrete, visible. The tracking shot
in these two films reveals “strangers” to be figures in a shifting landscape,
and ultimately, of course, that shifting movement becomes a figure of
identification for the spectator. In I Can’t Sleep, the tracking shot that
shows the policemen following Camille has a haunting, breathtaking
moment when the reverse shot reveals these figures of authority as
“tracked” themselves; for a moment they seem to be reflections of the
spectators at Camille’s drag performance. The risk and the pleasure of
“tracking strangers” in Claire Denis’s films are that sooner or later we
no longer know who is a stranger, or to whom.
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