All language subtitles for The Hypothesis of the Stolen Painting (1978)

THE HYPOTHESIS
OF THE STOLEN PAINTING

Human consciousness has expired.

On the cadaver he squats,
gloating, mired.

Seated in triumph, he turns to crow.

Each time
he deals the corpse a blow.

Victor Hugo

What do you see? What do you feel?

Is it pain or is it ecstasy

that keeps you afloat in space?

P.K. BAPH. VI. 141.

No sinister adjuncts
lend their banal significance.

No hint of melodrama
injects its facile role.

Simply by interpreting
in his sober, magisterial style,

the dynamism of these figures and
by capturing gesture and attitude,

the painter reveals
the ardent fanaticism of these men,

their implacable purpose.

J. Alboise in L'Artiste, 1889.

Ingenious,
somewhat studied compositions

recalling the witty groupings

employed with felicity by G�r�me.

Adding a novelist's skills
to those of the painter,

he plays cleverly
on our curiosity as spectators

who arrived too late.

M.F. Lajenevais,
Revue des Deux Mondes, 1889.

Rare is the artist so assured
of the present and the future.

He is not merely an instinctive
master of composition.

His sense of history preserves him

from the pitfalls
of dusty scholarship.

It was also said,

"Always a painter,
Monsieur Tonnerre

"is now an artist,
in the highest sense of the word."

And yet...

Alas! And yet...

How could such paintings
provoke a scandal?

And yet...

How is it
that only six paintings...

Seven.

How is it that a simple scandal,

a mere stir in fashionable Paris

became transformed
into an affair of state?

Alas.

Today we look and look again
at these paintings.

There is nothing shocking
about them,

no common link between them,
not even a unity in style.

In some,

the striking thing
is the attention to detail

but also a lack of care
in the overall composition.

In others,

the flowing strokes
and vivid colours

but also the static quality
of the compositions.

Y et others indulge

the excessive illusionism
of a theatrical d�cor

but also

seem contradictory
in their composition.

That these six paintings should pose
such questions is understandable.

Seven paintings.

But a scandal,

intervention by the authorities...

Alas! Thrice alas!

And yet...

And yet only seven paintings

preserve their mute testimony.

A scandal so great
that the authorities,

for once in agreement,
felt impelled to bury it.

The press was silent,

spies infiltrated the salons

and others, diversionary scandals,
seemingly by chance,

overtook the people
most concerned with these paintings

executed more or less skilfully
by an obscure disciple of G�r�me:

the painter Tonnerre.

Two comments...

Two comments
concerning the paintings.

And two further comments.

Two further comments,
but these of a more general nature.

Firstly,

the seven paintings
do have a common factor.

Although one of them was the object
of particularly virulent attacks

- we shall see why our parents
were driven

to react in this way -

and although two or three others
among the paintings

were held to be
purely and simply shocking,

the fact is

that the scandal centred
on the exhibition as a whole.

On all the paintings,

each and every one of them.

Secondly,

if we closely examine
each painting in turn,

we cannot but be struck
by a number of curious details.

This one, for example.

We see two Crusaders
in the act of playing chess.

The composition is theatrical,
you say.

Yes, but what does that mean,
"theatrical?"

The gestures?

The positioning of the figures?

No, not at all.

The effect you describe
as theatrical

derives from one simple detail:

the lighting.

From the two rays of light, one
entering by the window on the right,

the other
by the window on the left.

Which implies
a world with two suns.

This, I might add,
is only one example.

To turn now to the two comments

of a more general nature.

Let us consider
the historical context and say,

firstly,

the paintings did not show,
they alluded.

And what our fathers saw,

at the point
when the eight powers intervened,

was The Ceremony.

And, at that time in ceremony,
whose ritual is now lost,

which today we can scarcely
begin to imagine,

the ceremony

was on the verge of becoming
a matter of common knowledge.

This could not go on.

Which is why,
some months after the exhibition,

police raided the painter's house

and burst in on the ceremony.

And why the authorities
had no alternative.

They had to act quickly.

Secondly,

the painter Tonnerre
defended himself.

From Italy, he made his appeal.

Affectingly, by letter,
he declared his innocence.

Cleverly, he turned
the rules of the game upside down.

He declared
that the ceremony did not exist.

That what was known by that name,

what the police saw
with their own eyes

was merely
a re-enactment of his paintings

through medium of tableaux vivants,

no more no less.

We can imagine today

what the reaction to this defence
must have been

within the ranks
of the eight powers.

We can guess how some people
must have smiled ironically

and others laughed quite openly.

It was inevitable that our parents
should have reacted in this way.

But we have
other means of analysis today.

And I think I know

what the painter Tonnerre
really meant to say

when he protested his innocence.

Guilty as sin, he was.

What a terrible revelation.

They were the ceremony.

And yet...

The paintings do not show,
they allude.

The paintings...

re-enacted through the medium
of tableaux vivants

do not allude.

They show.

After opening the door

the collector shows us
into a drawing-room

overlooking a large garden.

He approaches the window.

With the aid of binoculars,
we can see at the foot of the garden

the reproduction of a mythological
scene in a tableau vivant.

Near a lake,

the Huntress muses with her bow.

Sheltered by the foliage,

Actaeon's eyes
waver between this vision of Diana

and a glimpse of his prey.

Is the third figure
really necessary?

Why this third person?

And why does he hold a mirror?

Well, the mirror you mention

would have been to dazzle the prey.

In this sense the role of the third
figure in the Diana and Actaeon

would assume
an unexpected importance.

It will indeed have escaped no one
that, extraneous to the scene,

this third figure invades it
purely to watch the watcher.

In another sense,
it is not impossible

that the prey
is none other than Actaeon himself,

metamorphosed as a punishment

for having dared
cast his eye on the goddess.

Y et what is there in this painting

to make us think
it is the first of a series?

What leads us from it
to the one we may consider

the next in sequence?

At the risk of upsetting
a somewhat facile train of thought,

I would like
to inject a certain doubt.

Suppose the Diana the Huntress
theme were merely a red herring.

Suppose the anomalous
elements were merely snares.

And that the trail
must be sought elsewhere.

A trail indicated

by a detail, minor but nevertheless
exposed to full view.

Let us allow that,

as an absurd piece
of hunting equipment,

the mirror offers a thematic clue

which might further our pursuit.

The collector is asking us

to ignore the narrative element,

the arrangement of objects

and even the object
of the character's scrutiny.

Look at the mirror.

The mirror reflects the sun's rays.

Let us trace their direction.

Here we see the sun's rays
reflected by the mirror

and falling onto a basement window.

A game of chess is interrupted
by the arrival of a Crusader.

One then realizes that the sun is
entering by the window on the left

while the same rays, reflected by the
mirror from the preceding painting

are cast on the scene
through the window opposite.

Thus the riddle of the two
contradictory rays is solved.

The Arrival of the Crusader.

I think that

the untenable aspect of the theme
will not have escaped anyone.

Whence comes this Crusader?

What does he interrupt?

How, coming directly
from the Crusades,

could he burst in on the scene

and surprise the players?

And these players,

what are they hiding

that they should be surprised
by the arrival

of a new character?

A new character...

The disturbing presence of the page
will, I think, have escaped no one.

The page who makes a great show
of his consternation

before the other characters
in the painting

whereas we,

and we alone,

can glimpse his secret smile.

If we accept

that this painting follows
the preceding one in the series,

which can we take to be the next,

and why?

I think you will have noticed
that the characters are Templars.

As you see, the painter has respected
the hierarchy within the Order.

Let us now consider this hierarchy.

On the lowest level,

almost marginal to the composition,

is the page.

Then the two Templars,
equal before the Grand Master.

Respecting the painter's intentions,

let us carefully observe
the Grand Master.

What is his attitude?

Let us examine
with renewed attention

each detail of his clothes,

the severity of his eye,

the clenched left hand.

Let us accept the astonishing
gesture of his right,

indicating the mirror.

A mirror reflecting what?

The window behind which,
in the first painting,

another mirror reflects the sun

shining through
this painting's window.

Crude conjecture.

Perhaps one might now venture the
hypothesis of a group of paintings

whose interconnection
is ensured by a play of mirrors.

Conjecture.

One might see the painter's oeuvre
as a reflection

on the art of reproduction.

Certainly not. That is not the way
to look at this painting.

The effect must be considered

in a totally different way.

Otherwise

we shall become entangled
in the snare set for us.

In this particular case,
the thing to be considered

is the form of the mirror.

With due care, however,
for therein lies another snare.

We must not linger over
the significance of this form

to the theme.

It is common knowledge,
more common within each day,

that the crescent moon

is a Saracen symbol.

No one can fail to be aware that
the presence of so impious a token

within the Order

is surprising, to say the least.

Today,

though they find it
difficult to accept, everyone knows

that the presence of this token
in the Order was, alas, probable.

But this is of no consequence.
None of this matters.

What matters

is the form itself,

the fact that this crescent

should be reproduced
in another painting

which I now invite you to consider.

A series of paintings
linked by minor details

sometimes skilfully inserted
extraneously to the theme:

the ray of light in the mirror,

the second mirror
in the shape of a crescent.

And now...

I would like to draw your attention

to the extreme care with which
the painter has placed the mirror.

So that
it is really impossible to err

in arranging the tableau vivant.

Is such care likely?

What else is the painter's purpose

but to draw our attention

to what is reflected in the mirror
when the tableau is arranged?

Look, it is he one sees
reflected in the mirror.

But now let us consider
the lighting effects.

The chiaroscuro, obviously,
is arbitrary.

Why should certain figures,
perhaps not the most important,

be privileged

and others remain a shadow?

But setting aside the lighting,
let us concentrate on the figures.

All becomes clear.

Let us reverse the lighting.

Let what was plunged in shadow
emerge into the light

and what was clearly visible
return to the darkness.

The mask.

There is the link
with the next painting.

We must then ask:

which is that painting
and why does the mask lead us to it?

Now the collector explains
that this painting does not exist.

That it is the stolen painting

and that all we know of it
is that there was a mask.

A certain number of problems
now present themselves.

If the previous painting
does indeed lead us to this one,

then obviously there will be
a hiatus in the series.

And with the trail lost,

how can we establish
the order of the paintings?

No one will ever know
what in this painting

was to have led us to the one I
postulate as the next in the series.

Here is the scandalous painting
rejected by the Salon in 1887.

Apparently exhibited in private,

it was, inexplicably,
acquired by the state.

What, in this painting,
could have provoked a scandal?

Was it enough simply to show
people of some social prominence

in attitudes which are in fact
quite commonplace

while claiming that they had agreed
to act as models

for the painting?

Might this painting

not be interpreted as a means

of stifling the rumours

which lay behind the scandal

and which tarnished the reputation
of a respectable family?

But in that case,
where would the scandal lie?

Maybe...

the fact of having posed
for this scene from family life,

no matter how commonplace
or innocent it be,

maybe this fact in itself

was felt to be totally unacceptable.

In fact, although the scenes
are indeed commonplace,

it is nevertheless true

that the fact
of having exhibited themselves,

the fact of having assembled
the protagonists of a scandal

might be interpreted

as ostentation,

as acknowledging and condoning

what public opinion would have
described as an "unspeakable vice".

But are these scenes
indeed so innocent?

Can we assert

that they are entirely
free from certain obscurities?

Who knows

but that these scenes
reveal aspects of the scandal

instantly recognizable
to the initiated?

There is certainly
something disturbing

about these scenes from daily life.

We may note that in each of them

someone has just committed,

or is preparing to commit,

That in both cases,

a third character
is in the act of watching

and that through his air
of frank disapproval, this character

provokes the desire

to commit the forbidden act.

A disapproval
that he displays to the spectator

but conceals from the characters.

Perhaps

in order to guard himself

against any eventual accusation
of complicity.

The grouping tells us, however,

that those who have been
discovered, as it were,

are pointedly turning their backs
on the spy.

Knowing this,
and accepting this situation,

the spy therefore
does indeed participate

as an accomplice

in the public exposition

of the moments
preceding and following

the reprehensible act.

And since the reprehensible aspect
of this act

resides in the intention,

is not the exposition
of these moments much more so?

Does this not open up

limitless possibilities
for interpretation?

Possibilities

reaching beyond the act itself,

which, as we need not now deny,
did indeed take place.

But was this not enough
to provoke a scandal?

Furthermore,

I should add that these events

and public rumours

have come down to us
by way of a little roman-�-clef.

A brief r�sum� of this little novel

will give us some idea
of the enormity of the events

which rumour
endeavoured to conceal.

The beginning of the novel

describes a betrothal scene.

Tha Marquise de I. has invited
her friends to a reception

to announce
the engagement of her niece O.

who is also her ward,

to the Marquis de E.,
a friend of the family.

The Marquise is presented from
the outset as a domineering woman

swayed by vaulting ambition.

The anonymous author makes no secret
of his sympathy for the Marquis,

portrayed as a man of thirty-five,

kindly by nature

and forced by the ruin of his family

into a marriage of convenience.

The Marquis is shown

as the victim of a cunning plot

devised entirely
by the Marquise de I.

At the end of the first chapter

the Marquise
suspects her niece's betrothed

of a questionable interest

in young L.,
her nephew and ward.

The latter is described
as a boy of very winning ways

not entirely unaware of the interest
he has awakened in the Marquis de E.

The author has earlier informed us
that the Marquise had planned

to marry the two cousins,
the young L. and the young O.,

thus uniting the fortunes of the
collateral branches of the family.

In securing her niece's hand,

the Marquis de E. spoiled her plan.

But her discovery of the interest
shown in the boy by the Marquis

leads her
to devise the sinister plot

which is revealed in Chapter Two.

This is

to encourage the relationship
between the Marquis and young L.

in order to provoke a scandal

which, by ruining
the reputation of the Marquis,

would make impossible the marriage

to the girl O.

At this point,
matters are complicated

by the entry of a new character,

El Se�or de H.,

Knight of the Order of Malta

and Spanish envoy to the Holy See.

Since this person
is also attracted by young L.,

he provokes
the jealousy and rivalry

of the Marquis de E.

E. and H.,
being friends of long standing

in view of their affiliation
to the same secret society,

agree to settle their
quarrel through a game of chess

with the loser undertaking

to renounce all claim to the
hypothetical favours of the boy L.

The betrothed girl
happens to witness this scene.

Perceiving the disquieting
implications of the scene

without really understanding,

she tells to her aunt.

The latter, we learn in Chapter
Four, is now resolved to act.

In pursuance of her plan,
she therefore summons the Marquis.

Arriving at the appointed place,

the Marquis finds the Marquise
partially unclothed

challengingly exhibiting herself
before his eyes.

Understanding the allusion

to his lack of interest
in the fair sex,

he loses his temper
and offers to strike her.

The girl, witnessing the scene,

assumes it to be
a lovers' quarrel.

Convinced that she is betrayed,
she determines

to confront her aunt.

In Chapter Five,

realizing that she has aroused

new feelings between the betrothed,

the Marquise summons the girl O.
to a clandestine meeting.

At this meeting,
the Marquise apprises the girl

of her fianc�'s unnatural tastes.

Seeing this revelation
as a mere stratagem

to part her from him,

the girl reacts violently.

Their quarrel is witnessed by H.

who decides to propose
an alliance with the Marquise

with a view to alienating the boy L.
from the Marquis.

Thus it is that,
for the fist time in the story,

young L. takes the initiative

and confesses his love
to the Marquise.

This scene is witnessed by the girl,
now doubly jealous of her aunt

but unable to choose in her heart

between young L. and the Marquis.

She confides in her fianc�.

These revelations cause the Marquis
to fall into a deep depression

intensified
when he witnesses a strange scene

between young L. and H.

In this scene,

H., a stag's head in his hand,

is attempting to persuade the boy
to pose as Diana the Huntress.

The Marquis, bursting in the scene,

provokes his friend H. to anger.

He reproaches him
with his lack of integrity

in failing to keep his promise
to renounce the boy.

Intervening

to reproach E. for having
abandoned him to a foreigner,

the boy aggravates the quarrel.

In Chapter Ten,

we come to the scene
of the duel between E. and H.

during the course of which young L.

is simultaneously arbiter, second,

sponsor and occasion of the duel.

In despair, believing herself the
cause of the duel, O. intervenes.

While the Marquise
watches from a distance,

at last savouring the scandal
she has anticipated for months.

Unfortunately,
both adversaries miss their mark

and H.'s bullet
accidentally wounds the girl O.

Police arrest the protagonists

but intervention of E.'s family

secures their prompt release.

Accused of attempted homicide

and obliged to plead insanity

to escape the law,

H. is confined to an asylum
not far from Paris.

In the penultimate chapter,

we find the girl O.
affected by her wound.

In the delirium of her fever

she sees herself as St. Theresa

and her cousin as the angel
conducting her to heaven.

The Marquis visits her,

but seeing him
as the devil himself,

she repulses him violently.

In renewed delirium,

now imagining herself
to be a Babylonian harlot,

young O. repulses
her angel of redemption

and still seeing the Marquis
as the devil, implores him

to conduct her to hell

thus obeying a command
given by St Theresa.

Following
a long and grievous convalescence,

O. forgives the Marquis de E.

We find all the characters
assembled at a family gathering.

Suddenly Se�or H. reappears,

having fled the asylum with the aid
of members of the secret society,

alerted by the Marquise.

H. publicly accuses E.

of failing to keep his promise

by continuing to importune young L.

The latter intervenes

to accuse H.
of alienating him from his aunt.

The girl O., finally grasping
the situation, breaks with E.

But the story does not end
as the Marquise would have wished.

That very night, the boy L.
is carried off by H.

aided by members of the sect

and taken to their mansion
in the rue de la Pompe.

Promptly alerted by the Marquise,

the police intervene

and interrupt a strange ceremony
involving young L.

as both priest and sacrifice.

The protagonists
all find themselves in prison

and are released
on payment of a substantial bail.

Young L.
is found hanged in his cell

and the talk is either of suicide
or a crime.

Can we accept that what lies behind
these paintings is merely a novel?

We can then say
that the protagonists

simply portrayed the novel's theme

as if it were a ceremony.

We have not yet seen or said
everything.

Two paintings remain.

We have travelled a difficult road
to come this far.

Will we manage
to travel it to the end?

Will we remember all the arguments
and counter-arguments developed?

Will we have time
to expound other doubts,

to point out the innumerable
thematic clues to the intrigue?

In this painting we may perceive

certain elements
of previous paintings.

This group, for instance,

recalls the painting
Tortures of the Inquisition.

This one, The Game of Chess.

This character
evokes Diana the Huntress.

But the other characters?

The naked women?
The clowns and demons?

We shall explain them

through the hypothesis
of the stolen painting.

The collector
once again requires us

to forget the thematic clue

and to concentrate
on the composition.

In this painting,
as in the preceding ones,

characters are grouped in threes.

Each group of three recalls a scene
from an earlier painting,

although there is, so to speak,
no linking story.

Let us turn our minds
back to the previous painting.

From there,
let us follow the thematic clue.

We see that the story
moves from painting to painting

like the hands of a watch.

Let us ask where this series of
scenes from family life is taking us.

We will now examine the characters
of the scandalous painting.

Let us trace

each character's gestures,
painting by painting.

We now see that, in moving
from one painting to the next,

the characters
are slowly completing the circle,

each in his own way.

The circle is not perfect,
you will say.

But what we have here
are really curves

which form circles of unequal
diameter if completed by imagination.

And these circles may be classified
roughly in three groups,

of decreasing importance.

And the circles of each group
are combined,

their respective product is,
of course, a sphere.

Spheres which we can in turn imagine
as combined or not

but which still evoke spheres.

But any movement
effected by a human being

leaves an imaginary trace
comparable to a curve.

We shall return to this.

Curved lines which suggest circles.

Circles leading to the sphere.

The blazing sphere which dominates
the last painting in the series.

Baphomet,

an androgynous demon.

The principle of non-definition.

In defiance of time.

An immaculate body without soul

caressed by the breezes which are
wandering, bodiless souls.

Assailed through the seven orifices

by wandering souls
seeking their reincarnation.

Souls

already despairing
of the day of resurrection.

Is this not what we have seen
repeated in all the paintings?

Is it not
the very heart of the paintings,

their occult theme?

The real cause of the scandal?

Worshipped by the Templars,

religion within a religion
of a state within a state?

Still worshipped today

in secret ceremonies

masquerading as mere debauches.

So that is the real reason
for the scandal?

It is.

But if all the paintings portray
the cult of the androgyne,

what is the role of the painting
Diana the Huntress?

I shall explain through the
hypothesis of the stolen painting.

The collector, visibly exhausted,

now invites us to consider

the Tonnerres
from a fresh standpoint.

What you have seen

are merely some of the ideas
these paintings have inspired in me

over the years.

Hence, perhaps,
their fragmentary nature.

But today...

now that I have once again

recreated The Ceremony for you,

a doubt assails me.

And I ask myself

if the effort was worthwhile.

I have, I confess, many doubts.

The enigma has been solved,
certainly,

and that should satisfy us.

But we are not satisfied.

What matters to us,

we humble mortals,

that the authorities should fear
the celebration of a cult

because this cult is the expression

of something more vast?

What matters to us,

we humble creatures of this world,

if this "something more vast"

be a revival
of the cult of Mithras?

Can we summon interest in the fact

that a cult like this

is, in effect, the equivalent
of military discipline?

And that military manoeuvres,

pomp and parades

are merely
one aspect of the ceremony

these paintings complete.

Can we feel fear

at the revelation that military life

and all that these paintings
represent

are the ceremony

whose solemn expression

signifies the mutual annihilation
of the celebrants...

total war?

No, I do not think so.

I do not think so.

Any such elucidation
would take too long for us to grasp.

Furthermore,

the cunning stratagem whereby

it is divided
in three superimposed riddles

would hardly speed us

towards our goal.

And yet,

I know that something
will be retained.

I know

that at this very moment

the paintings are beginning
to fade from memory.

I know that the snare
set by the painter Tonnerre

is beginning to show results.

The gestures,

the same gestures repeated
from painting to painting

loom up,

in isolation,

to better efface
the paintings themselves

and what they represent.

So,

let us forget.

Let us allow

the paintings to fade...

to vanish...

to vanish...

so that all that remains

is the isolated gestures,

the gestures of The Ceremony.

So saying,

the collector
courteously shows us to the door.

Subtitling: B.B. COM - Paris