Open Borders

Debunking some popular myths, BEN McCANN takes a closer look at French cinema

History
First things first: the French invented cinema in a Parisian café in 1895. They take great pride in the fact that it was an invention packaged, branded and exported around the world. They also gave the world Renoir, Godard and Truffaut. And the Cannes Film Festival.

What makes it French?
If there were an overarching definition of French cinema, it would be a cinema that displays a preference for atmosphere rather than story. By this, I do not mean films that don't have a beginning, a middle or an end (even though Godard said they didn't even have to be in that order), but rather that French cinema tends to concentrate on mood and tone rather than any overarching structure. Film is the seventh art for the French, and as such often invokes art's insistence on seeking out truth in an impressionistic and imagistic way. Atmosphere may often come from smoke curling from a Gauloise, a black turtleneck or moody gazes off-screen, but these are stylistic traits beloved of nearly all national cinemas. Instead, the "French-ness" comes from an implicit understanding that the plastic values of cinema - costume, set design, acting - need not necessarily be sidelined at the expenses of the narrative.

The auteur strikes back
The auteur theory, much beloved of university undergraduate courses, stems in no small part from French critics invoking their love of American cinema in the 1950s. They fell in love with Hawks, Ray, Welles and Hitchcock because they saw these directors as being the main creative influence in their films. Every artistic decision, from acting style to camera angle, was decided by the director. This auteur tradition may now have died away in Hollywood, where committees and exit polls ultimately decide the fate of a film, but in France, the tradition is arguably alive and well. The likes of Chabrol, Rohmer, Berri, Leconte and Rappaneau are all still delivering high quality films that are ultimately dependent on the decisions and choices of the director. This is one small reason why French cinema always seems so pleased with itself - they make films that they want to make. There are rarely budgetary or aesthetic imbroglios, and smaller, more personal studios permit the expression of artistic visions much more readily than the faceless executive in Burbank.

Anti-Hollywood
Anti-Hollywood in the sense that it tries to be different. Different cultural strategies have been adopted over the years to try and stem the tide of US film imports - quotas, tax breaks for home-grown directors, 50% guarantee of French films at the multiplex, strict trade regulations - but the current situation is one of harmonious co-existence. Walk up the Champs-Elysées and the billboards show Schwarzenegger alongside Michael Haneke. Hollywood cinema is still admired for its bravura and braggadocio, and retrospectives of Allen and Altman are endless, but it's fair to say that the balance is just about right. France has always tried to create its own national cinema identity as something different than Hollywood. This explains the prevalence of costume dramas, introspective chamber pieces and witty comedies. To see a French blockbuster is inevitably to be disappointed - Le Pacte des Loups (2001) or Mission: Cléopatre (2002) are never going to trouble Spielberg. As a result, the French tend to stick with what they are best at.

Brutal Cinema
French cinema has never traditionally been prudish. I remember seeing A Clockwork Orange for the first time in a Paris multiplex, with "interdit aux -12 ans" written in very small print on the poster. That a film culture can allow teenagers to see Kubrick's most notorious film is both breathtakingly enlightened and wonderfully democratic. This is perhaps not the forum to discuss the intricacies of the French censorship system, but suffice to say that such a policy has not brought about the end of domestic law and order. French cinema too seems deeply in tune with brutalism - in recent years, Seul Contre Tous (1998), L'Ennui (1999), Romance (1999), Irreversible (2001) and Baise-Moi (2002) have all been released to a more or less accepting public. Needless to say, all of these films carried an "over 16s" certificate (the highest for any non-pornographic film), but also incited deep debate about sexual violence, marginalised masculinity and female empowerment. All the films were brave explorations of vital contemporary issues and all raised important debates in the broadsheets and boulevards. This is a culture unafraid of talking about sex. That's why the French always roll their eyes when we start castigating our politicians for their sexual peccadilloes - in France, it's par for the course and this is reflected in the cinema.

And now?
But it's not all costume dramas and rape-revenge movies. Some of France's most popular recent exports are those films that seem relieved to throw off the strait-jacket of the French "art house" film. The Taxi trilogy is composed of wonderfully droll car chase capers that recall the heady days of Burt Reynolds and irate red-neck sheriffs. They may be puerile and paper-thin in terms of plot and character, but it is a welcome sight to see Taxi play Hollywood at its own game, unafraid to ape its narrative sugar-rush and indulge in crowd-pleasing stunts. Hollywood continues to mine French cinema for all manner of remakes, and Paris continues to stand in as a kind of meta-city for romance and wish fulfilment. Both Le Divorce (2003) and Something's Gotta Give (2003) are merely the latest in a long line of films that revert to the stereotypical topography of the city.

The French still have strange cinematic tastes - Jerry Lewis is still a star here, and Stallone films always score big on opening weekends. In one square mile around the Sorbonne University there are over fifty cinemas, each with at least three screens, and each often devoted to a career retrospective. That's why a visit to a cinema here is a truly cosmopolitan affair. The audience is made up of inquisitive tourists, avid cinephiles, and bewildered Anglo-Americans, amazed at the way in which they can see a Lubitsch gem or a long-lost Mankiewicz.

Dr Ben McCann is a lecturer in French Studies at the University of Adelaide. He publishes widely on French cinema, and is currently completing a book on the films of Michael Haneke.