Original subtitles

(Rousseau) Born in Laval in 1844,

compelled at first by his parents' lack of means

to follow a career quite different from that to which his artistic tastes called him,

it was, accordingly, not until 1885

that he made his debut in art, after many disappointments,

alone and without any master but nature.

(Narrator) At the age of 49, after the death of his wife and seven of his children,

Henri Rousseau, for 20 years a second-class clerk in the Paris Excise Service, retired,

to devote the rest of his life to painting,

a hobby to which he had long devoted all his spare time.

(Rousseau) My superiors in the Excise Service granted me easier terms.

A pension, so that I could work with greater facility.

They hoped to give France, our mother country,

one of her children who had but a single aim,

to render her greater still in the eyes of foreigners.

(# La Marseillaise)

(Narrator) With his wife alive and a large family to support,

Rousseau had only found time to be a Sunday painter.

Now, he would paint all the time.

He settled with his tiny pension and his odd Jobs in the 14th district in Paris,

convinced that he was one of France's greatest realist painters.

He got on well with his neighbors, the shopkeepers, bakers and café owners,

and always wanted to be one of them, to be a civil servant of painting,

and to decorate the buildings of the area for a small monthly salary.

But when he did offer his designs for frescoes, they were reJected,

and while he wanted to be like them,

they did not understand him.

In 1884, Rousseau applied to the Louvre for a copier's card.

He wanted to be recognized in the official salons of art,

but his work was completely ignored by the academicians.

Despite this, he was lucky,

because the year he decided to take up painting seriously,

the Salon of the Independents was opened.

Anyone could show their paintings here.

It was the first gallery ever to have no selection committee.

Had there been one, it is quite possible

that Rousseau would never have exhibited anywhere.

As it was, from the age of 42 onwards,

for almost every year of his life,

he trundled his four or five paintings through the streets of Paris

to this annual exhibition.

As correctly turned out as any old soldier,

Rousseau, in his artist's uniform, would arrive early from his distant suburb

to seek a choice spot and thus steal an advantage over his illustrious contemporaries,

Pisarro,

Cézanne,

Van Gogh,

Seurat,

Lautrec.

All revolutionaries. The inspiration of every unknown, struggling artist in Paris.

But not of Rousseau,

who arrived every year from his unfashionable district alone,

part of no group, or movement, or school.

The critics were as unkind to this misfit as the audience were.

(Man) A moment of hilarity is always pleasant.

Do not deprive yourself of this pleasure by failing to look at M. Rousseau's works.

(Second man) Go and see Rousseau, O my readers.

Lots of fun for your one franc admission.

(Third man) His portraits and landscapes

are made to cheer up hypochondriacs and persons whose lives are cavernous.

(Fourth man) Poor old Rousseau,

whose naiveté enriches the saddest people with laughter.

Oh, what's this, then?

"Last Day Of The 51st."

51st what?

"The 51st Artillery.

"A portrait of the artist and his brothers at arms."

(Man) Mm. They look like his brothers, too!

(Laughter)

- Oh, which one's he, then? - Mmm... That's him.

No, er... that's him.

(Woman) No, that's him. (Man) No, that's him.

(Woman) That's him! That's him! (Man) That's him! That's him!

(Woman) That's him! (Man) That's him!

(Woman) That's him! That's him! (Man) That's him! That's him!

- That's him! - That's him!

- He's all over the place. - (Laughter)

(Man) Good old Rousseau.

51 portraits of the last Rousseau.

(Laughter)

(Narrator) 50 years old and not a single painting sold.

They were slashed with knives and shown in the reJects' exhibition.

(Roaring with laughter)

Rousseau was the Aunt Sally of the Paris showrooms

and might have remained so for the rest of his life, had it not been for one man.

The incredible and fantastic 'Pataphysical midget, Alfred Jarry.

Yeah!

- Does that picture please you? - It is absolutely sublime.

Sublimely absolute, sublime in absolution, absolwed by its sublimity,

in nomine Patris et Filii and who the hell are you, sir?

Henri Rousseau, the man who painted it.

The grace of the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women,

and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and...

Jarry was certainly the most way-out writer in Paris when he met Rousseau.

Five feet tall, he lived in the lower half of a room divided in two by a mean landlord.

He's been called the surrealist who lived out the character he created,

the founder of a new alcoholic religion called 'Pataphysics,

fantastic eccentric, great playwright, madman, genius.

He was only 20, but with no more than two poems and a short book to his credit,

he'd been taken up by all the avant-garde writers and painters,

and he used his influence with them to help Rousseau.

Among many others, he introduced him to Apollinaire,

who was to do so much for him later.

As repayment, Rousseau decided to paint Jarry's portrait.

And so, as always, he measured the man, like a tailor making a suit,

and matched his paint against the midget's skin.

When Jarry was broke and thrown out of his digs,

he came to stay with Rousseau for a while.

Rousseau's first published work, War,

a lithograph commissioned by the magazine L'Ymagier,

on which Jarry was co-editor.

The two men became friends.

Born in the same town in Brittany, Laval, they made a bizarre couple.

Rousseau, the retired civil servant, Jarry, the original beatnik.

Both dedicated, both down and out.

Jarry recognized in Rousseau an unconscious surrealist,

someone who didn't need alcohol to stimulate his fantasies.

The world of dreams was Rousseau's reality,

and soon, Rousseau came to accept Jarry's eccentric behavior as a natural course.

- (Gunshot) - (Glass shattering)

(Animals howling)

(Howling continues)

...bleedin' hell do you think you're doing?

Do you realize you're endangering my children?

If you keep this up, I might lose them.

If that should be the case, Madame, we'd help you get some new ones.

The bedroom's over there.

Bedroom? I'll give you bedroom.

- Don't you come that filthy talk wi' me. - (Gunshot)

- You'll get your arse tanned. - (Gunshots)

(Narrator) For a time, they lived on fish and fresh air.

While working on his new play,

Jarry encouraged Rousseau to attempt a second version of his nightmare picture, War,

an hysterical child riding over a sea of dead bodies,

his most ambitious painting yet.

Can you see my hand moving up and down?

My dead wife's guiding it.

Mm. If she guided it a bit faster, perhaps we'd get the rent paid.

(Rousseau) Ah, she's always got her eye on me.

For the first time in his life, Rousseau set off for the Salon of the Independents with an ally,

and even higher hopes than usual.

Despite their high hopes, this great imaginative work was to meet the fate of all the others.

The scorn of an obese, bourgeois, Philistine and uncomprehending audience.

It was this group, personified by a grotesque character, Father Ubu,

that Jarry attacked in his revolutionary play King Ubu.

Its far-reaching effect helped artists as odd as Rousseau

to be eventually accepted by the general public.

Jarry introduced the play himself.

In any case, we are the perfect decor,

for just as one good way of setting a play in eternity

is to have revolwers shot off in the year 1000.

You will see doors speed on wheels of snow under blue skies.

Fireplaces furnished with clocks and swinging white circus doors.

(All murmuring)

(Jarry) ...little elephants standing on bookshelwes have brows on them.

As to the orchestra, there is none.

Only its volume and timbre will you miss

and various pianos and percussion will execute the cues from backstage.

The action, which is about to begin,

- takes place in Poland. - (People shouting)

That is to say, nowhere.

- (Scattered applause) - (Woman) Darling!

Shittr!

(Gasping and shrieking)

- Shittr! - (Gasping)

Shittr!

(All shouting)

Cauliflower à la Shittr.

(Audience continue shouting)

(Man) Take it off! Take it off!

(Second man) Disgusting!

(Third man) I've never seen anything like this in my life!

Absolutely incredible!

I shall report you to the police, sir!

It is absolutely incredible.

I dare not come to the theater with my wife again!

There's no accounting for taste!

(Man) Get off! Get off!

(Audience continue shouting)

Disgusting! Take it away!

(Rousseau) They're nothing but a lot of bloody pigs.

(Oinking and grunting)

After his attack on the Philistines, Jarry continued his Journey of self-destruction alone.

Rousseau was left with the best review he'd ever had,

inspired if not written by...

Alfred Jarry.

(Rousseau) "The artist who painted War once again reveals his personality.

"All that could make it seem strange is that it recalls nothing we have ever seen before.

"Yet is this not a highly admirable quality?

"Why should strangeness provoke mockery?

"Rousseau has suffered the fate of all innovators.

"His roots are in himself alone.

"He possesses what is today the very rare quality

"of being absolutely personal.

"He is trying to create a new art."

(Narrator) Yet Rousseau sold nothing at the exhibition.

His only earnings from paintings came from the few commissions for portraits

from neighbors and shopkeepers who knew him.

Most of his tiny income came from music teaching.

He had been a military bandsman, and later taught himself the violin,

and even received a municipal diploma for a waltz he composed.

With the diploma as his credential, he set up a part-time music academy in his living room.

His pupils were poor, and came in pairs to take advantage of the reduced fee,

working towards graduation day when they too would receive

a diploma from Rousseau.

But this still didn't earn him enough money to buy his paints,

and he was forced to tramp all over Paris.

Neither the routine odd Jobs nor the complete indifference of the world

could impair his prophetic vision.

Rousseau knew he was closer to the 20th century than the 19th,

and after he was dead, both the cubists and the surrealists

acknowledged that he had foreshadowed much of their work.

Yet, despite their indifference, Rousseau himself remained totally confident of his work,

as this letter to the mayor of his home town Laval shows.

"Dear Mr. Mayor.

"I have the honor of sending you these few lines

"as one of your countrymen who has become a self-taught artist

"and is desirous that his native city possess one of his works.

"Proposing that you purchase from me a painting called The Sleeping Gypsy

"which measures 2.6 meters in width

"and 1.9 in height.

"A wandering negress playing her mandolin

"with her jar beside her, a vase containing water,

"sleeps deeply, worn out by fatigue.

"A lion wanders by, detects her,

"and doesn't devour her.

"There's an effect of moonlight, very poetic.

"The scene takes place in a completely arid desert.

"The Gypsy is dressed in Oriental fashion.

"I will let it go for 2,000 or 1,800 francs

"because I would be happy to let the city of Laval possess a remembrance

"of one of its children.

"In the hope that my offer will be treated with favor,

"accept, Mr. Mayor, the assurance of my distinguished consideration.

"Henri Rousseau, artist, painter."

(Narrator) 1899, Rousseau remarries at the age of 55.

Rousseau was happy with Josephine.

She regulated his life, looked after his business,

encouraged him to be a respectable painter,

and from his own account made him ideally happy.

He played in the band in the Tuileries gardens,

she sold his paintings in the parlor and in a newspaper kiosk.

After a year or so, he began to exhibit again regularly at the Gallery of the Independence.

He was again laughed at and his paintings ignored.

But with his wife behind him, Rousseau fancied he was still carving out a fine career.

At least for the first time in his life, he was free of debt.

He celebrated his new happiness in a painting called Past And Present,

in which he and his wife were watched over by the first Madame Rousseau

and the painter as he had appeared 20 years earlier.

For a while, Josephine was his model and his muse.

After four years of happily married life, his wife was dead of cancer,

and he was alone again.

He wrote very few letters and never kept a diary,

and nobody knows exactly how he felt.

(# Violin playing slow melody)

(Ship's horn)

(Ship's horn)

Sometimes one of his neighbors would commission him to do a big picture.

Working from a photograph, as he often did,

but reorganizing the figures and adding new ones of his own, including himself sometimes,

Rousseau would transform the most haphazard snapshot

into something personal and strange.

Those who knew him at this time spoke of him as an exceedingly kind man,

somebody who would share all he had with anyone in need.

This sometimes led others to take advantage of him,

and he would often be left in a worse plight than those he helped.

At one time, he existed on the kindness of a neighbor

who brought him a pot of stew once a week.

It lasted him for the next five days.

Since Jarry, nobody had suspected the true value of his work,

- not even his new friend, the poet Apollinaire. - (Knocking)

- Monsieur Rousseau! - Good day!

A singular honor has descended on you.

I bring to examine your paintings

none other than Monsieur Dujardin-Beaumetz,

superintendent of the beaux-arts of Paris and the world.

Ah, the minister! Here!

Pray don't let us interrupt you, dear sir.

I know the powers of a great artist, the concentration must be respected,

must be treasured.

Pray continue to paint as though we weren't here.

Ah, but the minister! Here!

The minister will undoubtedly notice the colors, the blacks.

Monsieur Gauguin has particularly mentioned the blacks and now we must all mention the blacks.

Look at the blacks, monsieur le ministre.

(# La Marseillaise)

Monsieur le ministre will know that I too worked in the service of the Republic.

Really? As an artist, I hope.

Oh, no, no, no, in the customs, the other side of Paris.

And the imagination which can impose reality on such sublime fantasy,

the minister will notice that.

I've only stew to offer you, but if the minister would care for some...

The reality, yes, yes, indeed.

Right away!

Ooh!

(Splattering)

(# La Marseillaise continues)

- The reality. - And the detail!

The precision, the craftsmanship, the finish!

None of your Cézanne leftovers,

none of your skating lines of Lautrec.

A good, solid finish.

- Yes, indeed. - That's because of the number of layers.

I've still got me uniform, you know.

(Apollinaire) Now for the presentation.

(Dialogue silent)

Even well-disposed artists like Apollinaire and his friends

thought of Rousseau as a kind of mascot,

somebody to play Jokes on,

and it was years before they recognized his naive genius.

He's a grand animal, a lovely animal.

You're a... a real... You're a good lion.

(Roars)

Look out! He's comin' to get ya! (Roars)

(Laughs)

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.

The first thing I have to do tonight is to present a certificate to one of my pupils.

He's been with me for three years and he thoroughly deserves it.

(Applause)

Short of a program, anybody?

Thank you.

What you're going to hear now is a waltz which I composed

in... in memory of my late wife Clémence.

One, two, three.

Two, two, three.

(# Band playing out of tune)

Rousseau began to hold his musical evenings,

which at the time won him more fame than ever his paintings had done.

Friends and local shopkeepers crowded into his tiny studio

to rub shoulders with the curious bohemians and artists

who had crossed Paris to be present Just for a lark.

The standard of the performance was awful,

and the programs, with their 24 numbers, interminable,

but everyone seems to have enJoyed themselves.

This was about as close to the wild bohemian life that Rousseau ever came.

(Applause)

There'll now be a short intermission for drinks.

(Sighs of relief, chatter)

(Growling)

It was at this period of his life that Rousseau turned to his great tropical paintings.

What attracted him to this exotic, mysterious world is still uncertain.

Legend has it that Rousseau served in Mexico for four years in the 1860s,

a legend fostered by Apollinaire in a famous poem.

"You remember, Rousseau, the Aztec landscape,

"the forests where mango and pineapple grow,

"where monkeys spill the watermelons' blood,

"way out there where the blond emperor was shot.

"The scenes you paint, you saw them in Mexico. "

But there is no record of Rousseau actually going to Mexico with his brigade,

and some people say that his passion for the tropics

was cultivated in the conservatories of the Jardin des Plantes in Paris.

And now, 64 years old, he was arrested for fraud.

The case was extremely involved, but it was obvious to everyone who knew him

that Rousseau had been duped and that he was completely innocent.

Nevertheless, the French courts liked neither artists nor frauds,

and Rousseau was implicated and so liable to five years' imprisonment.

He was kept in his cell three weeks before the trial.

And in that time he was tormented not by guilt

but by the thought that he was letting down his students

and having his career interrupted.

He wrote letters to everyone and many to the Judge.

"You will kind enough not to destroy a career so laboriously acquired.

"I have my class to teach the day after tomorrow.

"My pupils are counting on me

"and will be waiting for me.

When pleading failed, he resorted to bribery.

"I am very sad to see where I have landed,

"between four walls in this cell.

"I get giddy and sometimes I nearly collapse.

"Everything goes round and round.

"Oh, sir, how I suffer!

"lf, in your goodness, you were to grant me my liberty,

"I would do a beautiful portrait of you,

"just the style and size you wish

"or I would make you a present of one or two pretty landscapes

"just as you like.

Rousseau was brought for trial,

victim of a scheme involving forgeries which any schoolboy would have seen through.

Technically, however, the case against him was very strong

and after all his friends had testified as to his simple and honest character, his lawyer -

a young friend of Appolinaire's wanting to make his way -

ended his speech for the defense.

I will ask you to listen attentively,

for if you are to find M. Rousseau innocent of this fraud

it is for me first of all to convince you of the innocence of the man,

of his naivety.

Ten years ago, when he was a struggling young artist of 51,

M. Rousseau wrote, and I quote,

"It is only now, after years of hardship,

"that Rousseau..." he is speaking of himself...

"that Rousseau succeeded in becoming one of France's leading realists."

He sees himself as a realist.

I will now ask you to look at some of these paintings.

Look at them carefully, look at them hard.

I will ask you to observe this realistic jungle.

Observe these realistic footballers.

Observe the realistic detail in the brushwork, here.

Observe this portrait.

Now, if a man can look at these paintings,

his own paintings, and believe, and believe sincerely that they are real,

surely, when confronted by a confidence trick, by a fraud -

plausible, sinister, meticulously worked out in every detail -

surely it is no less possible for him to believe that this trick

is nothing more than an unexpected and extremely welcome windfall.

Because I must assure you that this is exactly what M. Rousseau did believe

and he believes it still.

On another occasion, he was made to believe

that he was going to be appointed commander of the legion of honor

and that an official banquet was going to be accorded him.

This was nothing but a heartless prank, played on him by some of his friends,

yet M. Rousseau believed this.

In exactly the same way that he believed the fraud

and in exactly that he believes in his own genius

as one of France's leading realists.

This morning M. Rousseau confided to me,

"If I am found guilty, it will not be an injustice to me

"but it will be a tragedy for art."

Mr. President, let us return Henri Rousseau to the world of art.

That is where he belongs.

He is an original, he is unique.

What right have any of us

to condemn a primitive and find him guilty?

Can I go home now?

(Narrator) Rousseau was fined 100 francs and released under a suspended two-year sentence.

He continued to wheel his paintings to the annual salon

and he continued to wheel them back again.

But one of his paintings did sell

for five francs in a Junk shop.

The man who bought it was Pablo Picasso.

He'd gone in looking for a cheap canvas to paint over.

Rousseau knew Picasso's work as well.

(Rousseau) You and I are the two greatest painters alive today,

you in the Egyptian style and me in the modern style.

(Narrator) This painting convinced Picasso of Rousseau's genius

and he prepared to celebrate it.

(Loud commotion)

Friends!

Our guest of honor for this evening,

M. Rousseau.

(Rowdy response)

(Narrator) And now, at last, his paintings began to sell.

Besides the artists of Picasso's generation, who came to pay homage to Rousseau,

there'd also been presents from discerning art dealers and patrons,

like Joseph Brummer and Wilhelm Uhde.

They began to seek him out, buy his paintings.

And, more important to Rousseau,

to give him and his work the serious attention he had fought for all his life.

Oh, I must show you this one.

Landscape portrait of Joseph Brummer.

At the age of 66 it seemed as if his career was beginning at last.

Hardly surprising, then, that he should look around for somebody to enJoy it with.

(Inaudible)

(Narrator) Rousseau was helplessly in love,

this time with a 54-year-old widow called Léonie

who worked as a sales girl at the economy stores

and thought him totally unsuitable.

He was desperate to win her.

He wrote to friends for certificates of talent and honesty,

which he presented to Léonie's father.

He gave her presents.

He sat outside her home night after night

and he made out his will to her

and he wrote to her endlessly.

He needed her love.

His life, his work, were only for her.

(Rousseau) "August 19th, 1910.

"My beloved Léonie...

"All my thoughts are for you.

"Before going to bed I must say a word about the observation you made at Vincennes,

"while we were waiting on the bench for the trolley.

"You said that if I was no use to you, at least I served as your buffoon.

"Whose fault is it that I'm no use to you for cohabitation?

"Don't you think I suffer?

"Don't you think that I would be happy to feel more often the sensations of love

"which come when two beings love each other as we do?

"Natural sensations.

"And neither the woman nor the man must refuse the right

"since nature has made us thus, has created us for one another.

"Christ said every tree or every creature

"which beareth not fruit hath no use.

"Therefore we should procreate.

"But at our age, we do not have to fear that.

"Yes, you do make me suffer,

"for fortunately I still have my feelings.

"Let us unite and you will see if I'm incapable of serving you.

"For your part, be less cold with me,

"don't break my heart when I want to caress you,

"by being sullen and responding reluctantly to my advances.

"And why act this way with me,

"since we understand each other on this point, I believe,

"since we love each other?

"True, it is not only for that that people marry at our age

"but we have not either of us had the final say yet.

"A thousand affectionate kisses,

"Always your

"Henri.

"H. Rousseau."

Would you like a cake, Eugénie?

Yes, thank you.

And a cup of coffee?

Are they suitable for you?

They'll do.

Are you comfortable, then?

Sufficiently, I don't intend to stay much longer.

What can I do to entertain you?

Nothing.

Well, I'd like to show you some paintings.

My dear, be seated.

Hmm.

Ah, well, I call that The Vase of Flowers.

Pink Candle.

Portrait of a Young Girl.

Still Life with Coffee Pot.

- Child on the Rocks. - (Laughs)

- Another Vase of Flowers. - (Continues to laugh)

Then we have the Lady Walking through the Tropical Forest.

(Her laughter intensifies)

I've another one over 'ere I'd like to show you.

(Laughs)

I call this one The Jaguar Attacking the Negro.

- A realistic jungle scene. - (Laughs)

This is The Happy Quartet,

Adam and Evening and their dog in the Garden of Eden.

(Laughs)

Apollinaire and his Muse.

Sleeping Bohemian.

I call this The Football Match.

(Laughter continues)

- That's the 51st Brigade. - (Laughs)

- Landscape Portrait of Joseph Brummer. - (Laughing) Oh, dear!

Oh, I must show you this one.

This is my masterpiece.

Self-portrait, 20 years ago.

- (Laughs) - You can have it if you want it.

(Laughs even more heartily)

Landscape with Patrie and Biplane.

(Laughs)

View of the Isle of St Louis during the Night of the Fire at the Bus Depot.

- Landscape, Outskirts of Paris. - (Laughter)

Walk in the Forest. Out of Work Musician.

Artist Painting his Wife.

- Baby's Party. - (Laughter intensifies)

Scout is Attacked by Tiger. View of Parc Monsouris.

- (Laughter starts to drown speech) - Portrait of a Man. Portrait of a Woman.

- (Uproarious derisive laughter) - View of the Eiffel Tower.

(Laughter drowns out speech)

(Laughter continues)

(Laughter stops abruptly)

Baby's Party.

(Narrator) Abandoned by Léonie, Rousseau appeared to withdraw from the world.

He painted one of his greatest canvases, The Dream,

in which a dream lady is transported to a tropical paradise

on Rousseau's faded settee.

(Narrator) He gradually became unwell.

He opened a vein in his leg to let some blood.

He neglected the wound.

A week later he died of gangrene in a paupers' hospital.

Alone.

His painting of The Dream

is in the Museum of Modern Art in New York,

valued at over a million dollars.