The Frog Kissed by Three Princesses

Roger Vadim tells Anne-Elisabeth Moutet all about his memoirs, Bardot, Deneuve, Fonda.

Bertie Wooster would strongly disapprove of Roger Vadim. "One doesn't bandy a woman's name in mess" hardly ever was one of Vadim's ruling principles. France's best-known seductor, a director renowed less for his films than for the actresses he married and divorced, and one of the very few male exponents of the "kiss-and-tell" memoirs, Vadim just looooves to discuss his life, loves, and lovelife with the likes of Brigitte Bardot, Catherine Deneuve, or Jane Fonda. His conversation is peppered with anecdotes, the names gently dropped, a worldly half-smile softening the innuendos. He has also had several shots at his favourite subject in print. (In 1976 he stormed Britain with a publicity tour for his first autobiography, Memoirs of the Devil, with comments on all of his wives and girl friends - including the "Danish bombshell" Annette Stroyberg, and his then (fourth) wife Catherine Schneider, president Giscard's cousin.)

His latest book, of almost anatomical precision, is succintly entitled Bardot, Deneuve, Fonda - Three Women. They've all had a look at the manuscript, he swears - to forestall possible legal action - and have okayed it, but one can't help wondering how they can possibly like it. Not so Vadim, who seems to believe that Fonda and Bardot at least couldn't have any objections to having the torrid details of their nights with him recounted in graphic detail. If he isn't embarrassed, he reasons, why should they?

There he sits, the ultimate lounge-lizard, very much at his ease, drinking vodka at four in the afternoon in the bar of the Hôtel du Pont Royal, where he's agreed to have the interview. The Pont-Royal bar is a literary landmark in Paris - a meeting place for authors and publishers, where Françoise Sagan, once of Vadim's Saint-Germain des Prés restless crowd, used to beg her publishers for larger advances. Vadim likes the atmosphere - dark red leather, wood panelling, a perpetual late-evening feeling; 11:30 p.m. when it's broad daylight outside.

"My career did really suffer a lot from the fame of the ladies I helped succeed," he says, sipping vodka and looking gently sorrowful - the creator defeated by his creatures. "All this publicity - people paid attention to me, not to my work." He also says: "You see, when I married them, they were fresh, unknown - and then they became stars and changed entirely, and I couldn't cope with their new personalities anymore." And he says: "Officially, they all left me - but there are ways of making women leave you." (Let it be said, for the sake of historical accuracy - one likes to get these things straight - that the only surprise came from Annette Stroyberg, Wife Number Two, who did walk out before Vadim felt like initiating the severance manoeuvres.)

Two years from his sixtieth birthday, he does look incredibly handsome. He is tall and lean; the lines on his face still spell character, not age; the full lips curve in a wolfish grin; his thick hair is more pepper than salt. He dresses with casual elegance - the least one can expect from a former Paris-Match reporter - in corduroys, cashmere pull-over, well-cut tweed jacket. He is supremely self-possessed - making you feel you are the very best person in the world to share his little jokes, his risqué reminiscences, his ultimate judgements on his former harem. "The trouble with Brigitte," he explains, "is that she won't accept her age. She leads this tragic life really - surrounded by yes-men, alone in her house, alienated from the world, with her animals..." The trouble with Fonda was her crusading, but he is softer on Fonda; they actually get along quite well, are neighbours in Santa Monica, share in the education of their 17-year-old daughter Vanessa. The trouble with Stroyberg is of course that she walked out.

"I wasn't finished working on her, that's why she hasn't had the career of the others." She was wrong, you are led to infer. "She left me for Sacha Distel - it surprised me." Distel, he goes on explaining, was a paler copy of himself. A lapse of taste.

He says less about Catherine Schneider - Schneider wasn't an actress, wasn't interested in publicity, there's no point in discussing her. (Schneider, a daughter of one of France's great industrial dynasties, was also hardly ever defenceless.) But to get him really going, start him on Catherine Deneuve. There's very little love lost between them.

There is something eerie about the whole conversation - casual, intimate, catty gossip about the most beautiful women in the world - and it makes Vadim's presence in the Pont-Royal bar strangely affecting. This is the man who's slept with Bardot and Deneuve, you can't help thinking, and you feel troubled. Would he ever consider me? God, of course not. Not in the running. I wonder what he's like in bed. (You don't really; this is on par with wondering what it would be like to go about life's business in a silver-gray Rolls-Royce with chauffeur.) Vadim is probably aware of this effect he has on women, and uses it to his advantage. He is a scarce commodity - a tried and tested Don Juan, a wolf in wolf's clothing, a certified seductor. He doesn't try, but, just as truly beautiful women, he is so used to being desired that it shows - his smiles are never interrogative, for instance; he assumes automatically that you are under his charm.

How he became Le Vadim has been told, but not explained. The son of a French naturalised Russian aristocrat (and, he claims, a distant descendant of Genghis Khan) who had become a Consul in the French Foreign Service, he was born Roger Vadim Plemiannikov eleven years before World War II, and so lived the first years of his adolescence under the Occupation. Small wonder, he says, that in 1945, at 17, he felt like leading the mad, carefree life of Saint-Germain des Prés - dancing all night at Le Tabou, ogling girls from the terrace of the Flore, taking the odd job as an extra on film sets, selling screenplays for a pittance, hanging out all night with Juliette Gréco and Boris Vian and Edith Piaf at La Rose Rouge.

He graduated as a capable film director's assistant, and went on leading the life of Riley (with a stint in London on White Fury, a Sir Alexander Korda film starring Valerie Hobson and Stewart Granger) until he noticed one day the picture of a very pretty girl in ELLE. He decided she was just right for the lead for a screenplay he'd written, and looked her up. She was called Brigitte Bardot.

"Her parents didn't approve of my irregular habits, so to be finally allowed to marry Brigitte in 1951, I had to get a regular job." He knew the then editor in chief of Paris-Match, Hervé Mille, and obtained a 200-dollar a month reporting job, with unlimited expenses.

There was no better way to go on leading his charmed life. There's a quote all hacks take to heart, by the editor of the Washington Times, Arnaud de Borchgrave, who once said that "journalism is the only profession which enables you to remain a juvenile delinquent all your life." Very few news organisations fit that definition as well as Match in those halcyon pre-television days of the 50s and early 60s. The money was on an American scale, the gung-ho typically French. Vadim took to the Match rat-pack like a duck to water.

"We were everywhere. Kings and princesses, paratroopers from Indochina, mercenaries, film stars and politicians, they all talked to us." The Match people thought nothing of chartering planes, helicopters, bribing hotel concierges, pre-empting officers' transport to get faster to a front line, blowing wads of expense-money in three-rosette restaurants with their girlfriends, spend nights on the tiles before leaving for dangerous assignments, driving hard, drinking hard, living hard. Vadim loved it. He had seduced Bardot and soon made her a star; his erratic life finally proved too much for her, as it would with all his wives. "I didn't want to be nailed down,", he explains disingenuously. "If friends called me to a party at midnight, I went. Of course there were dramas." Even after he left Match, the old habits remained.

He graduated to fame in 1954 with his first film, And God created woman, with Bardot, the smooth Austrian actor Curt Jürgens, and a young French beginner who would eventually take Bardot away from him, Jean-Louis Trintignant. By then Bardot was showing evidence of a brain of her own - not necessarily what he liked best, however strenuous his assurances to the contrary. In a press conference, for instance, she showed wit and presence of mind. "What was the best day of your life?" she was asked. "A night." "Who is the person you admire most?" "Sir Isaac Newton, because he discovered that bodies attract each other." Possibly, but no longer those of Roger Vadim and Brigitte Bardot. Annette Stroyberg was soon to follow.

After Annette came Deneuve, the woman yet again voted the most glamorous in the world in a recent French opinion poll - and by then the pattern was established. Seventeen-year-old little girl needs to be awakened to her beauty and to the joys of sex. "Catherine was wary of me, or rather, of my reputation," Vadim smugly writes. "She was expecting to find a superficial, cynical and no doubt intelligent man. She discovered that I was rather tender and a good listener."

Except Deneuve soon turned "bossy", which Vadim didn't like - and doesn't even today. They communicate only through lawyers, have bitterly fought over their son's career (Christian Vadim, 21, read law for one year, then gave up to star in his father's latest (1983) film, the forgettable Surprise Party, to his mother's fury) and Vadim doesn't have enough nasty little anecdotes about Deneuve. "Whenever Christian would come spend a few days with me while he was still at school, she would type out a list of all the clothes and things in his suitcase, and scream if as much as a sock was missing. In the end we used to leave the suitcase in the hallway, and I'd go and buy Christian new clothes." Deneuve, he claims, is so interested in money that she's made a lucrative sideline of suing whoever "invades her privacy" - newspapers, paparazzi, writers, TV programmes. "She has this lawyer on an annual retainer, and she can make an extra 100,000 to 200,000 francs in a good year." You shudder. Is this the voice of the world's best-known seducer? More to the point, you ask him whether he's not afraid of a court case with this interview, and his book. He explains that he has deleted quite a bit from the book on lawyers' advice. And then he grins: "But if she starts to really annoy me, I'll tell more. I've got one or two little things about Catherine that I don't think she'd like known."

What strikes you most at this stage is how perfectly natural this all sounds. Vadim lives in a different world, reminding one forcibly of a male Alexis Colby. It all fits: his ageless beauty, his belief that the world - and women - are there to be taken, the jet-setting life, the dropping of famous names, the soap-opera situations. In his book, just as in Dynasty or Dallas (but quite unlike real life) his present mistress (Deneuve) throws a scene when she finds his ex-wife (Stroyberg) in his bed; he makes love to his nubile girlfriend (Bardot) in the house of her unsuspecting parents; his children are torn between parents; actors lend him love nests to seduce young starlets who after the momentous event open wide the windows to scream their happiness to the whole world in the nude. He even married serious money (Catherine Schneider), but it didn't last any more than the rest - even though he got a whiff of exalted circles there, with President Giscard dropping in or borrowing his Ferrari. (There's a story, which Vadim denies, of how Giscard was driving the Ferrari during a night on the tiles, and rammed it into a milkman's van in the small hours of the morning as he was getting back home to the Elysée Palace.)

But those heady days are over, and if Françoise Sagan is a frequent guest at the Elysée, Vadim is no friend of François Mitterrand's. He divides his time these days between Paris and Santa Monica, shooting made-for-TV pictures for HBO, the American pay-TV channel, and looking for backers for his grander projects. There's also a new woman in his life - she has been there for three or four years, a good average by Vadim standards. She's Ann Bidermann, a 30-year-old American screenwriter about whom he has nothing but praise. She is, he says, intelligent, beautiful, charming. You are slightly dazed by the news. A wolfish grin:

"Anyway, she's not an actress, she's not blonde, and she's an intellectual. Quite atypical. We should stand a fair chance."

© Copyright Cosmopolitan (UK) & Anne-Elisabeth Moutet 1986

Sophie Marceau at 19

EDUCATING SOPHIE

At 15 Sophie Marceau became one of France's sweetest starlets. At 16 she asserted her independence and played a prostitute bent on revenge. Now, at 19, she has shocked her public even more with her most recent role in police, which opens here in early june. Profile by Anne-Elisabeth Moutet.

Watching Sophie Marceau play a North African hustler in Maurice Pialat’s pessimistic film Police, it’s hard to believe she was once billed as ‘the new Gallic Shirley Temple’.
Her character, Noria, is sullen, vulgar, sensual and ultimately deceitful. In a country where anti-Arab racism runs rampant, Marceau risks losing some of the fans who adored her as the cute, sugary and white child star.

But then, at 19, with a five-year, six-film career behind her, Marceau is an exception in the usually unadventurous French film industry. At 13, she signed up with a children’s model agency without telling her parents and was called up to audition for a film. Director Claude Pinoteau picked her from 200 teenagers and her career was launched with his two innocuous comedies, La Boum and La Boum 2. School was abandoned. There was no baccalauréat for Sophie, only a French Oscar for Best Newcomer.

The films were produced by the 92-year-old plane maker Marcel Dassault, a sometime Howard Hughes with a Walt Disney sensibility. He believes in the clean, wholesome values of the French middle class, and has the money to promote them on the big screen.

La Boum, set in one of the more affluent Paris suburbs, was about teenagers going to their first surprise parties and the most daring scene showed daylight necking on a living room sofa with the curtains drawn.

Five million spectators saw it in France alone, and Marceau found herself whisked off on promotional tours of Germany, Spain and Japan (where she eclipsed John Travolta, there to sell Grease). She was a 15-year-old bankable star, and France’s best-loved young actress.

In the beginning, she behaved so true to teenage type that Dassault could never have enough of her on the cover of his other toy, the glossy magazine Jours de France, (‘We only report the good news,’ one of its editors once proclaimed) and the rest of the French press followed suit.

Her first love was her leading man in La Boum, 18-year-old Pierre Cosso. Both touchingly told reporters they wanted to ‘keep it clean’. Sophie agreed to every picture session: in front of her parents’ council house in the kind of Parisian suburb where no Dassault production would ever be shot; with her school chums, with her father, mother, dog, cat; with the ubiquitous Pierre, hand in hand at the Cannes film festival or on the Champs-Elysees.

She cut a forgettable single with the pop singer François Valéry and, such was the appeal of her image, even while she admitted to singing off-key, it sold more than 100,000 copies. She was the ultimate clean-cut teen actress.

Then the image blurred and the clichés vanished. Or perhaps Marceau was moving faster than the eyes watching her. She requested, and obtained, legal emancipation at 16 ‘to be able to sign my contracts myself’. She left her family home in Sceaux (‘No dramas, I just wanted to live at my own rhythm’), bought herself a flat in Paris and her parents a brasserie. Pierre receded gently into the background. She refused 25 screenplays that were little more than Boum series rehashes.

‘I got into the film business quite casually,’ she says, ‘and in the beginning I felt I could just give up if I stopped being successful. But now it’s got me. I’ve got to do it and do it well, and if, with my all efforts, I fail, I’ll work as an extra to keep near the cameras. I come alive on a set. Sometimes it worries me, ordinary life seems less real.’

It’s a far cry from the carefree day when, with her café waiter father, she answered Pinoteau’s casting call.
‘We never took it seriously,’ she remembers. ‘I just thought it would be fun to make a little money. Then we saw all those other kids dressed like models, with their stage-struck parents, when I was just wearing dungarees and a ponytail. Dad thought we’d better leave at once, and I begged him to wait for at least an hour. If no one had called me then, we’d go. He agreed and I was selected, so that hour really made all the difference in my life.’

Today, with years of interview experience behind her, Marceau is more reserved. Her answers remain quite direct, but she sometimes hesitates to find the best turn of phrase. Living in jeans, men’s sweaters, ‘and my latest film’s hairstyle — I don’t really care’, she refuses most picture sessions and very few outsiders are allowed in her home. She also keeps her personal life completely private. No Paris socialite, her spare time is spent working on her country house, east of Paris. At home in her city flat, the front door is firmly shut in the face of prying journalists.

Marceau’s deviation from an innocent image was born out of L’Amour Braque (Mad Love), Polish director Andrzej Zulawski’s modern-day version of Dostoevsky’s The Idiot. Zulawski had been impressed with her performance in Fort Saganne, a big-budget epic about French colonization in Africa, in which she played the daughter of a French civil servant and shared top billing with Gérard Depardieu and Catherine Deneuve. A Zulawski/Marceau combination sounded improbable. But the idiosyncratic director, with a reputation for brutalizing his actresses (he gave Romy Schneider, Isabelle Adjani and Valérie Kaprisky their most taxing roles) and a fascination for the darkest human emotions, offered her the part of Marie, a teenage prostitute bent on revenge and self-destruction.

‘I was struck by Sophie’s quality of immediate truth,’ says Zulawski. ‘It could have been her youth. But when we met, it was obvious that it came from inside her.’

Marceau jumped at Zulawski’s offer and shocked her French public with violent and nude scenes in the director’s baroque, excessive style. ‘He gets things out of his actors that they never knew were there,’ she says. ‘Sometimes it hurts, yet you are changed by it.’

But Zulawski also protected, almost nurtured her. ‘He had the dresses redesigned especially for me in Paul Poiret’s Thirties style,’ she recalls. ‘He insisted on a heavy fringe to emphasise my eyes. He corrected my make-up until he found a soft enough eyeliner. He lightened the shadows on my face.’ Friendship grew from such intimacy.

L’Amour Braque was a commercial flop, which she regrets to this day, but even before its release, she’d started work on Pialat’s Police. Her days as France’s favorite sugar baby were over.

Even today, Marceau finds it difficult to talk about Police. After Zulawski’s ultra-professional (and protective) methods, she found herself dealing with the talented Pialat’s messy, improvised direction and his habit of establishing what she calls ‘sadistic’ relations with his actors. She remembers coming to work and being ignored by him for days on end, playing a character whose delineations changed hourly. Pialat indulged in disparaging comments about her looks and weight at the end of shooting. ‘That fat cow,’ he called her, in front of a reporter. That she emerged with flying colors is a tribute to her abilities. But it left her with a bitter aftertaste.

On set, Depardieu was no help. ‘When we’d shot Fort Saganne he was so protective, like a big brother. On the Police set, he was withdrawn, self-centered. But I couldn’t criticize him; I’ve always said myself that selfishness is an actor’s best asset,’ she smiles wryly.

Since Police, she has made an LP, Certitude, a vast improvement on her first single; posed nude in Photo magazine; and is currently working on Zulawski’s next project, a biography of Joan of Arc. After that it’s a Bogart/Bacall-type thriller, La Descente aux Enfers, under the direction of Francis Girod.

Every now and then, Sophie Marceau is asked how it feels to be a star. ‘I am not,’ she says. ‘You need much more work, experience, personality to be one. People pay attention because I’m so young. Someday I’ll be 30 and perhaps, like Isabelle Huppert recently, I’ll only rate two pages in Paris-Match instead of six.’

© Copyright ELLE UK & Anne-Elisabeth Moutet 1986

Alain Resnais: 'I Never Have Ideas - Producers Usually Approach Me'

Director Alain Resnais and Anne-Elisabeth Moutet. Photo © Louis Monier.

By Anne-Elisabeth Moutet
Special to the Washington Post

His films are often seen as "intellectual" and "gloomy," but at 55, French director Alain Resnais ("Last Year in Marienbad," "Hiroshima Mon Amour," "The War Is Over") would very much like to make a comedy.

"I once worked with Lee Falk on a film adaption of 'Mandrake the Magician,' but we never got very far, because we couldn't find the right cast," he recalls. "The character was a myth. The only actor I could think of was Ronald Colman. He would have been perfect for the part."

Resnais' last film, "Providence," about an old writer fighting death and bitterly questioning his relationship with his children, has just swept up a staggering seven Césars, the French Oscars, but got mixed reviews in the United States. Curiously enough, his previous movie, "Stavisky," did just the opposite: American critics raved about it, but the French hated it.

"I have though about this," says Resnais sitting in an easy chair in his office near the Champs-Elysees, intent on his point.

"The French like things to be clear-cut, so 'Stavisky' bothered them. He was part of their national history, so they wanted a political, historical movie. The Americans will take liberties with their national heroes, they will cast stars for the part; it doesn't matter whether Billy the Kid looked like Paul Newman, or whether Bonnie and Clyde were very different from Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway. They also hadn't much heard of the Stavisky affair (a political scandal in 1934 which eventually led to the Popular Front of 1936). So Jean-Paul Belmondo did not bother them in the leading part; they took the film for what it was, a reverie about the loss of youth and about death . . . And there was Charles Boyer. The Americans remembered him from all those films. Why, I remember him! He was almost like a legend to me, too."

He smiles dreamily. He is a tall man, with long, expressive hands, blue eyes and a mane of gray-white hair.

"'Providence' was different. I think the big New York critics - Vincent Canby, Pauline Kael - did not like it because it was in English. I was playing on their ground; I was no longer protected by that kind of snobbishness you can find about French films with subtitiles . . . I've also been told by American friends that they found the British accent very annoying. They will like it in a comedy, but in a drama it sounded pretentious. But we had good reviews in university towns like Boston or Houston, and also on the West Coast. And in New York, some critics liked the film: Rex Reed, of The Daily News, was so enthusiastic he wrote two stories! The problem is just that they say you must have The New York Times."

"Providence" is Resnais' first try at directing in English. "It had to be in English," he explains. "At first, I thought Mercer (his screenwriter, British playwright David Mercer) would write in English, and it would be translated. And then I received something like 15 pages of French script, and I though: I'm going to fall on my face, this thing doesn't exist. In English, I might fall on my face as well, but at least doing the real thing . . . My producers were great, they just said 'Go ahead.'"

He grins, recalling the atmosphere on the set: "I have a terrible French accent in English, a Breton accent, but the actors were very nice. I think the Americans like the French accent, thanks to Maurice Chevalier. But I don't think the English do so much, and I sometimes felt very sorry for them. I love the English tongue, and I was very, very happy working on this film."

Languages and accents are important to Resnais. He has already had three abortive English-language projects. One was an adaptation of Dick Tracy.

"I would have loved to do it," he says, "but I don't think I could have handled it. It all depended on different American accents and gangsters' slang, over which I really had no control at all."

A wry smile of regret, a shrug. All of his films are commissions anyway. Resnais insists: "I never have ideas. Producers usually approach me and ask whether I would consider working with so-and-so - an actor, a writer. We meet - sometimes for the first time, as with Mercer for 'Providence,' talk things over, and slowly, something comes out of it . . . There's nothing restrictive in a commission, you know, as long as you can work the way you feel. Take Stravinsky, for instance - and of course, I'm not comparing myself to him.He never wrote a note that hadn't been commissioned. Or take those painters who received an order for a 'Virgin and Child' . . ."

He smiles and offers coffee. Then he gets up and goes to fetch it from the machine in the corridor himself, instead of calling for a secretary. The interview takes place in his office partly because at his home "the phone would never stop ringing," partly because he is very secretive about his private life.

"I belong to the 'shy club,' you know," he jokes. "(Eric) Rohmer, (Mike) Nichols, (George) Cukor and I, we just don't speak about ourselves. And Florence is even shyer than I am."

Florence is his wife, Florence Malraux, the daughter of Andre Malraux. She is Resnais' assistant on his films.

"They met on the set of 'Last Year in Marienbad' (in 1960)" once recounted Florence's mother, Andre Malraux's ex-wife Clara, 79, also a writer. "Alain told Flo: 'I want to take you to New York,' and they went for a week there, with the film interrupted and everything. That's how they got married."

Resnais doesn't like to talk about such personal matters. Instead, he talks shop with our photographer: lenses, Leicas, Nikons, development. Technique is fundamental to him: the nuances in color, the soundtrack. He will work in the lab himself to obtain a blue or a red atmosphere. He also constructs the soundtrack like a musical score: He refers to counterpoint about the dialogues in "Marienbad," and says he has used, on Mercer's very elaborate text for "Providence," the voices of the actors as a Shubertian quintet (Dirk Bogarde being the piano, Ellen Burstyn the violin, John Gielguld the cello, David Warner the alto, and Elaine Strich the double-bass).

When working on a film, Resnais asks his scriptwriter to produce a first draft, then they lock themselves up in an apartment or in a quiet hotel in the country, and toil with a tape-recorder, writing and polishing each sentence until they are perfectly satisfied. "It takes two years," he says. "Nine months for the script, then two or three months to draw up the budget and find the money, three months to get actors free of commitments and to find the locations, two months for shooting, two to three months for editing, synchronizing, etc., and then the release with the public relations. . . ."

Resnais views himself as a craftsman. He laughs off the suggestion that he could make a low-budget film on his own, without producers or commissions. "What do you call 'low-budget?" he asks. "For one thing, I'm against not paying the actors or the crew. I mean, you really have to have a lot of nerve to ask that of people.Even so, you still have to pay for the film, the lab, some expenses and the script has to be cheap - that is, not too many locations, few actors. Okay, let's say $120,000. I just can't afford to lose that kind of money - where would I find it? These low-budget films are for rich kids."

He has a practical approach to money problems. Most ambitious films in France base their budgets on hoped-for U.S. profits - box-office returns as well as television rights. "There's a lot to be said against the habit of slicing films with commercials," he admits, "but the big networks pay very well. Whereas PBS, like Channel 13 in New York, which I like very much, pays almost nothing at all for films, just like French television . . ." So Resnais won't criticize commercial television - or, for that matter, purely commercial films, from cheap B thrillers to soap operas.

"The film industry can turn out a few 'quality' films every few years thanks to "The Other Side of Midnight.' It's just the same in the record industry, without the Osmond Brothers or some such best-selling pop singers, one could not listen to Penderecki's "The Devils of Loudun,' because it would have ebeen too expensive to record. . . ."

He evoked the years of the late 1930s in Paris, when he would cross the city to see the new American films in the Latin Quarter. As a child, he had not studied much because of poor health. "I wanted to come to Paris," he recalls. "I was born in Brittany (in Vannes, in 1922), but really, I don't remember it well. It was Paris that fascinated me."

During the dark days of the German occupation, he started studying cinema at a new institute, founded in 1943 as a gesture of defiance against the times. "I was not thinking of becoming a director then; I wanted to be a film editor so that I could be close to actors." Now he directs Boyer, but when he talks of him, his voice retains the elation of the 15-year-old discovering "Liliom" or "Shanghai."

In a country where the intellectuals take sides loudly, Resnais refuses to talk politics; and as others' films get more politically involved, his stay aloof. "You can make statistics on the number of people in prison, on the number of people tortured and on the number of people dying of hunger in a country, and you can size up its government that way," he remarks."But the rest is never clear-cut. It is like writing a screenplay, you cannot predict what will happen in advance."

© Anne-Elisabeth Moutet & The Washington Post Company.