Original subtitles

Do you know the ten historical propositions about the Old Testament?

No.

Scholem's text

says a tradition exists concerning truth

and that it is transmissible.

I laugh.

The truth in question here

has many properties.

Being transmissible isn't one of them.

What are you talking about?

I don't see.

Very well put.

"I don't see."

And yet I saw him.

No, heard him.

Men fight for a society in which we aren't slaves to money.

You can't understand living not to make money.

Listening to you,

I'm starting to understand.

But this obsessiveness...

Ever think of anything else?

Of love? No, never.

Perspective was the original sin of Western painting.

Niepce and Lumi�re

were its redeemers.

When I admire a film,

I'm told: "It's nice, but it's not cinema."

So I asked myself what it was.

I come not to abolish, but to fulfill.

You cannot serve both God and money.

When giving alms,

let not your left hand know what the right is doing,

so secret is your almsgiving to be.

Your Father, seeing what is done in secret, will reward you.

As you have judged, so will you be judged.

May you be granted to judge with equity.

And with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.

My God! The money!

This, then, must be your prayer every day.

O homecoming!

O homecoming of him who no longer need be

a guest.

Oh, when would the end appear?

Where would it appear?

When was the curse going to be broken?

Was there a final degree in the intensification of silence?

It seems so to the individual.

How many sobs for a guitar tune?

Did evil still exist?

Man's voice, woven into the fabric of the universe, gave no answer.

It seemed there would be no answer before daybreak.

As if everything were but waiting,

waiting for the day-star,

as if nothing else besides this were legitimate.

Because, for one last time, night gathered its forces

to conquer light.

But it is in the back that light

strikes the night.

And first,

very soft, so as not to scare him,

the murmuring that man heard long ago,

- oh, so long ago,

well before he existed! -

the murmuring begins again.

The last lesson of Fernand Braudel.

He's not telling stories.

As Etienne Jules Marey asked him to,

the holy man examines and surveys.

Identity of France.

Identity of cinema. Identity of the New Wave.

One evening, we went to Henri Langlois' house.

And then there was light.

Because - isn't it so? -

true cinema didn't wear, for our provincial eyes,

the face of Madame Arnoux in Fr�d�ric Moreau's dreams.

We knew cinema via Canudo and Delluc

without ever having seen it.

Nothing to do with Saturday movies

at the Vox, the Palace, the Miramar

the Vari�t�s.

Those films were for everyone.

Not for us.

Everyone but us.

Because true cinema

was the kind that can't be seen.

That was the only kind.

It was

It was

It was Mary Duncan.

Isn't it so, Jean George Auriol?

But we would never see The River.

We had to love it blindly.

And by heart.

Same with the crowds of October.

And those of Que Viva Mexico.

Isn't it so, Jay Leyda?

Same goes for the streetcars in Sunrise.

Isn't it so,

Lotte Eisner?

Already forgotten,

still forbidden,

always invisible.

Such was our cinema.

And it stayed with me.

And Langlois confirmed it.

That is the precise word.

That the image

is in the domain of redemption

- that of reality -

we were amazed!

More than El Greco in Italy

and Goya, also in Italy, and Picasso before Goya.

We had no past.

This man from Avenue de Messine

gave us the gift of this past

metamorphosed into the present

during Indochina, during Algeria.

And when he first projected Man's Hope,

we were less struck by the Spanish civil war

than by the fraternity of metaphors.

Our only mistake was to think it was a beginning.

That Stroheim hadn't been murdered,

that Vigo hadn't been sullied,

that the 400 blows continued.

They were growing weaker.

And thirty years later,

we had to admit if our courage had been vanquished,

we had to admit

that it was probably

because it wasn't out of courage, but out of weakness.

And perhaps...

I finally have to realize

that the forces of weak interaction,

the fourth wall of the house of the world,

that this weak force is that of art.

And of its last newborn:

The cin�matographe.

What's this museum? T-shirts?

It's the New Wave, Audrey.

What's Daumier got to do with it?

Ask the guard.

- Enjoy? - There's interesting stuff.

I disagree.

Tons of pictures of works.

Never any people.

That's the New Wave. Auteur theory.

By authors. Works!

Your friend is right.

The works first, the men after.

You have no heart!

We can film work. Not hearts.

I don't know.

It's a time of unemployment.

Who is out of work?

Some times have too many hands and too few hearts.

Yes, times without heart, but not without work.

When an era is sick and lacks work for all hands,

it addresses us a new exhortation.

The exhortation to work with our hearts

instead of using our hands.

I know no era

that lacked work for all its hearts.

All the same. Becker.

Rossellini. Melville.

Franju. Jacques Demy. Truffaut.

You knew them.

Yes, they were my friends.