The French Screen Goddess 9780755694747, 9781780767000

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To my parents, Robert and Sue

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List of figures

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Gaby Morlay in Le Bonheur

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Pierre Fresnay and Orane Demazis in Marius

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Elvire Popesco in Ils étaient neuf célibataires

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Jacqueline Delubac in Faisons un rêve

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Jean Gabin and Viviane Romance in La Belle équipe. BFI Stills, Posters and Designs

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Autoportrait (Tamara in the Green Bugatti). © 2014 Tamara de Lempicka. Licensed by Museum Masters International

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Greta Garbo. BFI Stills, Posters and Designs

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René Lefèvre and Annabella in Le Million

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‘Fleurettes’ sheet music, taken from Midinette

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Annabella in La Bandera

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La Bandera poster

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Louis Jouvet and Arletty in Hôtel du Nord

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Annabella and Jean-Pierre Aumont in Hôtel du Nord. BFI Stills, Posters and Designs

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Danielle Darrieux in Le Domino vert

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Club de femmes poster

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Danielle Darrieux in Mademoiselle ma mère

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Danielle Darrieux in Un mauvais garçon

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Henri Garat and Danielle Darrieux in Un mauvais garçon

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Charles Vanel and Danielle Darrieux in Abus de confiance

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List of figures

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Michèle Morgan still, taken from La Cinématographie Française

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Jean Gabin and Michèle Morgan in Le Quai des brumes

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Michèle Morgan in Le Quai des brumes

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Michèle Morgan publicity still for Le Quai des brumes

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Michèle Morgan and Jean Gabin in Remorques. BFI Stills, Posters and Designs

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Jean Gabin and Michèle Morgan in Le Quai des brumes

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List of tables

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‘La Femme idéale’ statistics 1935

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2 Actor popularity 1929–1935

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3 Female actor popularity 1936–1938

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4 Male actor popularity 1936–1938

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5 Film popularity 1936–1938

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Acknowledgements

This book is based upon my PhD thesis ‘Female Cinematic Stardom in 1930s French Film’, which I completed at King’s College London in 2009. I would first of all then like to give very special thanks to my PhD supervisor Ginette Vincendeau for the enormously helpful advice and encouragement she has given me for the duration of this project. Other people who have given valuable assistance, in a variety of ways, include: Marc Alizon, Maurizio Cinquegrani, Richard Dyer, Markos Hadjioannou, Frank Krutnik, Leong Wai Lun, Hope Liebersohn, Mariana Liz, Julie Lobalzo-Wright, Christopher Meir, Laura Mulvey, Victor Perkins, Geneviève Sellier and Lawrence Webb. I am also grateful to my colleagues at Monash University Malaysia and to my editors at I.B.Tauris, Anna Coatman and Philippa Brewster. I would like to thank the Arts and Humanities Research Council for funding my research, including additional financial support for a six-month research trip to Paris. I would also like to thank the School of Arts and Social Sciences, Monash University Malaysia, and the Association for Studies in French Cinema for providing me with funding to pay for some of the book’s images. I am very grateful to the staff at the following libraries for their assistance: the British Film Institute, the Bibliothèque nationale de France, the University of Warwick library and the King’s College Maughan library. Finally, a huge thank-you must be given to Louis Bayman, Olga Kourelou, Anna Puthuran, Christopher Driskell and most of all to my parents, Robert and Sue Driskell.

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Introduction

Most French film stars of the 1930s started their careers in the theatre; many pursued parallel careers, filming in the studios during the day and performing on stage at night. This partly came about because the demands of the new sound medium meant that performers with skill in vocal delivery were needed, but producers also saw it as a way to capitalise upon France’s rich and extremely popular theatre culture: performers came from music venues (caféconcert, music hall and vaudeville) as well as the dramatic stage (the popular boulevard theatre and the more elite theatre of the Odéon and the Comédie-Française). The stardom that is the focus of this book was different: these stars did not begin their careers on stage and throughout the 1930s had almost no involvement with the theatre. While this may seem like a minor issue, this book argues that it had profound implications. Although outnumbered by the stars who came from the stage, the stars who bypassed the theatre were extremely successful, appearing in many of the decade’s most celebrated and popular films and, as I will argue, they exemplified new developments that would have great significance for the future. In order to distinguish between these two forms of stardom, I refer throughout this book to the stars from the theatre as ‘theatrical stars’ and those who entered the cinema directly as ‘cinematic stars’. This terminology is adopted for convenience and should not obscure the fact that the cinematic stars possessed some theatrical elements and that the theatrical stars, as film stars, were also in many ways cinematic. Although there were male examples of cinematic stardom, it was a form that was largely dominated by women. For this reason, the book investigates the important female manifestation of this type of stardom, focusing on three key examples, Annabella, Danielle Darrieux and Michèle Morgan, who according to a number of sources were the most popular female stars of the 1930s.1 In exploring this topic, the book takes 1

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its place within two main areas of study: 1930s French cinema studies and star studies – two areas I shall now briefly outline. A key rationale for writing this book is that work on 1930s French cinema has traditionally been dominated by studies of the decade’s aesthetic ‘masterpieces’, its ‘genius’ filmmakers and the celebrated film movement known as poetic realism – a type of film specialising in lyrical depictions of humble, working-class milieu. Such an emphasis is evident from a number of general studies of the decade’s cinema2 as well as from a consideration of the many works focusing specifically on Jean Renoir, Marcel Carné, Julien Duvivier, Jacques Feyder, René Clair, Jean Grémillon and Jean Vigo, the period’s most distinguished directors.3 While such work has made a valuable contribution to knowledge of the period’s cinema, providing in-depth analyses of some of its most celebrated films and filmmakers, the concentration on such a restricted corpus of films provides only a partial picture of the nation’s cinematic output at this time. For example, Raymond Chirat’s catalogue of French films made between 1929 and 1939 lists some 1,305 films, only a small fraction of which are the canonic films that have received the majority of attention.4 However, from around the mid-1980s onwards, academia has developed an interest in 1930s popular French cinema. The first study to focus exclusively on this topic was Ginette Vincendeau’s PhD thesis: ‘French Cinema in the 1930s: Social Text and Context of a Popular Entertainment Medium’.5 Since then, the period’s cinema has been interrogated from a range of perspectives and using a variety of methodologies, including work on the film industry,6 national and transnational aspects of the cinema,7 film style and technology,8 and representations.9 Of particular importance to this book, as I shall go on to discuss in more detail, are studies focusing on representations of gender in the period’s cinema, especially Burch and Sellier’s La Drôle de guerre des sexes du cinéma français.10 However, work on the period’s stardom has been scarcer. Indeed, it was some time before Hollywood stardom was considered worthy of study. While there were a considerable number of fan-oriented books on stars, it was not until Edgar Morin’s Les Stars and especially Richard Dyer’s Stars that film stardom 2

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Introduction

received close academic attention.11 Building on Morin’s work and informed by insights from Cultural Studies, Dyer argues that stars, like films, are texts that can be analysed. In his rigorous theorisation of the star phenomenon he discusses the importance of film stars to the film industry, to society and to the films themselves. Many other works on stardom followed, most of which draw upon the central principles of Dyer’s original study.12 However, while Star Studies has helped to redefine Film Studies as a discipline that engages with popular culture, it has focused primarily on Hollywood stardom, serving to obscure the importance of stars and stardom to other filmmaking nations. Such a bias is evident in the title of Alexander Walker’s book: Stardom: The Hollywood Phenomenon.13 This can be seen as part of a more general assumption in Film Studies, and in culture as a whole, that Hollywood produces popular cinema and Europe produces ‘art cinema’. With books and conferences focusing solely on popular European cinema, this is an idea that is now being challenged.14 Of course, Hollywood has produced some of the world’s most famous and iconic stars, who sum up for many people the very notion of stardom. But other nations have also produced hugely popular and iconic stars, something that has begun to be acknowledged in recent academic work.15 Studies dealing specifically with French stardom have also begun to emerge. Again, there has been a long history of hagiographical work on French stars as well as some insightful pieces by particular film critics, the most famous being André Bazin’s discussion of the ‘Gabin myth’.16 The first academic work on French stardom was Vincendeau’s (and Claude Gauteur’s) work on Gabin,17 which she followed with pieces on a number of other French stars, as well as a book, Stars and Stardom in French Cinema.18 The field has now begun to expand, with essays and books focusing on many of the nation’s stars.19 Of particular importance to this book are the few studies that have considered stars of the 1930s. This includes books by Françoise Ducout,20 and Olivier Barrot and Raymond Chirat,21 as well as a number of more academic pieces.22 While not focusing explicitly on stardom, Burch and Sellier also provide much needed insight into some of the decade’s key stars, such as Jules Berry, Edwige Feuillère and Viviane Romance.23 3

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Some writers have already considered the stars I investigate in this book. For example there are biographical, fan-oriented and journalistic accounts of Annabella,24 Darrieux25 and Morgan,26 including a recent book on the careers of Darrieux and Morgan (as well as Micheline Presle) entitled Les Trois glorieuses.27 In terms of scholarly studies, Vincendeau and Crisp have both analysed aspects of Morgan’s persona,28 Phillips29 has discussed Annabella’s Hollywood films, Sellier has written on the Hollywood work of Darrieux and Morgan,30 and Judith Mayne has discussed Darrieux’s work during the Second World War.31 These studies provide valuable insight into key features of cinematic stardom, particularly through discussion of the modernity and internationalism that were two of its defining features. This book will expand upon such work by outlining other important shared aspects of these stars and by exploring their collective significance to the French cinema of the 1930s as key instances of a new and influential form of stardom. My study also includes a strong comparative dimension. For, in order to identify and understand the importance of the main features of cinematic stardom, I need to compare it with two other types of stardom that were popular in 1930s France. I have already mentioned one of these types – theatrical stardom. The other is, of course, Hollywood stardom, which was also hugely successful in France at this time, with many Hollywood stars appearing high in the period’s popularity tables32 and ubiquitously in fan magazines. It is against this backdrop that the cinematic stars emerged. My comparisons centre upon three main aspects of cinematic stardom: its position within the film industry, its place within film aesthetics and its role in constructing and perpetuating ideology. I shall now turn to these areas in detail.

Cinematic stardom and the film industry The production of stars is an issue central to the study of stardom and one that Dyer discusses in Stars in a section entitled ‘Stardom as a Phenomenon of Production’. Here he considers stars from the point of view of the market, highlighting their role as commodities that are used by the film industry in order to 4

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maximise profit. Stardom in Hollywood’s classical period needs to be understood in the context of its industrial structures – the eight main studios, which had a monopoly on American film production, had large numbers of stars under contract and as a result were able to attain a significant degree of control over them and their personas. This situation was less common in other countries, though another rare example of a studio attaining this kind of control over its stars is the British studio Rank during the 1950s. In general, this situation has not existed in France – a few stars were contracted to Pathé and Gaumont in the late 1920s and early 1930s, but both studios went bankrupt, preventing this arrangement from developing. Instead, the French film industry in the 1930s (and since) has been described as ‘artisanal’ in nature; production companies would form for short periods of time, often just to make one or two films before then disbanding (or going bankrupt). Some critics, disappointed with the quality of French cinema of the 1930s, have blamed this industrial structure, claiming its instabilities prevented films from reaching higher aesthetic standards. The period’s masterpieces, it is claimed, are all the more impressive for the fact that they came from this context. However, some scholars have taken the opposite position. In 1980, Elizabeth Grottle Strebel argued in French Social Cinema of the Nineteen Thirties that following the collapse of the major studios Pathé and Gaumont in the early years of the decade, ‘the rise of a more independent cinema […] in turn led to the rise of French social cinema’.33 More recently, Crisp also maintains that the industry’s artisanal structure actually helped create masterpieces: these films were produced because of this system, not in spite of it.34 At the same time, Crisp also argues that this system prevented French cinema from being able to produce film stars. Comparing the different industrial structures existing in France and Hollywood, he contends that, because the French industry was not composed of large studios, it lacked the organisation needed for stardom to develop: It requires a considerable degree of industrial organization to fabricate and sustain such a situation: there must be a 5

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well-organized publicity machine to feed the audience the necessary ‘information’ about the actor or actress; there must be established channels through which the audience can express its admiration, such as fan mail, fan clubs, and fan magazines; and these in turn require a secretariat to respond to mail. More centrally, the generation of a series of convergent scenarios and the casting of a given actor or actress in the recurrent mythic roles requires a high degree of continuity in the production system: it must be able to respond rapidly to audience approval of a film or of an actor or actress; it must have on call that actor or actress, and it must have on call scriptwriters who will accept its instructions concerning the form their next several scripts should take.35 As this quotation indicates, for Crisp the industrial structure prevented stars from attaining consistent and coherent personas. He also believes it prevented French stars from attaining the ‘elevated’ quality for which Hollywood stars were famous. He comments on how journalists would ‘erect altars’36 for Hollywood stars, but would discuss French stars with greater familiarity. Moreover, he points out that, for financial reasons, stars could not commit themselves to careers in the cinema and would have to move between stage and screen. In short, his argument is that: ‘A fully developed star system requires a conjunction of textual, industrial, and socioeconomic factors which simply did not exist in France.’37 This notion of a fully developed star system is a problematic contention, which suggests that there is a platonic ideal of how a star system should be. At the beginning of Stars and Stardom in French Cinema, Vincendeau immediately argues that the concept of the ‘star system’ can be thought about in other ways: There are many French film stars, but is there a French ‘star system’? No, if by this is meant the highly organized management of stars developed by the American studios in the classical period or the Rank stable of British stars and starlets of the 1950s. But yes, in the sense that stars are crucial to the economy

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Introduction

of French cinema: most mainstream films feature stars who in turn organize its narrative hierarchy and publicity.38 Vincendeau then goes on to outline the national specificity of the French star system. For example, whereas Crisp sees the movement of actors between stage and screen as evidence of the absence of stardom, Vincendeau’s discussion of the close relationship between these forms illustrates how this is actually a defining feature of French stardom. As Marcel Pagnol wrote in an article in Cahiers du film in 1933: ‘And who are the great stars of the screen? The stars of the theater.’39 In addition, Vincendeau explains that while French stars are not produced by major studios, there are other ways in which their personas attain consistency and coherency, and by which they possess the elevated quality that is required of stars. Vincendeau points out that the stars who entered the cinema via the theatre would often take theatrical roles.40 These ‘types’ would be taught at the conservatories and other acting schools, and would be perpetuated in theatrical troupes. As many films of the 1930s were direct adaptations of stage successes, it is unsurprising that performers would then take similar roles in the cinema. However, even when they appeared in films written directly for the screen, they would also tend to take comparable, ‘theatrical’ parts. Other ways in which stars would attain consistent personas are through star–director collaborations, such as the Gabin–Duvivier films of the 1930s, and by stars controlling their own images, taking it upon themselves to choose films and marketing strategies that would facilitate the creation of a popular identity. Moreover, the film press with such magazines as Pour Vous and Cinémonde, would also play a significant role in constructing and reinforcing star personas. Despite not belonging to large studios, French stars were also able to attain some of the ‘stellar’ quality possessed by Hollywood stars. This would be achieved through glamorous fan magazine features and photographs that would present their off-screen lives as being as extraordinary as their on-screen lives. Although stars in French cinema received fewer close-ups than Hollywood stars,

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they could still expect to be treated as stars within their films, something I will discuss in more detail shortly. A key feature of 1930s French stardom is that many of the most popular stars were older males, aged over forty and often fifty. This phenomenon has been discussed in a number of works on French cinema of the period and I will return to some of these later in this Introduction.41 To give some examples, four top male performers of the decade were Raimu, Sacha Guitry, Louis Jouvet and Charles Vanel who, in 1935, were fifty-two, fifty, forty-eight and forty-three years old, respectively. A significant exception in male stardom is provided by Gabin, who was thirty-one in 1935, and there were a few other younger male stars such as Charles Boyer, Henri Garat and Jean-Pierre Aumont. Nevertheless, older male stars were the norm. There are sociological explanations for this phenomenon, which I shall consider further below, but the centrality of older males to the period’s films can also be explained by the close relationship between the cinema and the theatre. The four older male performers mentioned above had prominent and lengthy stage careers. When they entered the cinema they took the roles they had performed in the theatre, which were often written with older males in mind. As a consequence, women take a less central place in the decade’s cinema. Some roles were written for older women, such as Gaby Morlay and Françoise Rosay (significantly also theatre stars), and, as Kelley Conway discusses, the chanteuses réalistes are another important instance of this.42 However, while older women tended to be excluded from the period’s films, younger women appeared with greater consistency. This is in large part related to the fact that many narratives centre upon relationships between older men and younger women. Many of these roles were taken by the cinematic stars of this book, which begins to hint at their importance to the decade’s cinema. Indeed, the cinematic stars I consider were amongst the few female stars of the period (others being Viviane Romance and Edwige Feuillère) to be given leading roles. What this brief introduction to the French ‘star system’ indicates is the strong influence of the stage, which played a key role in determining who would become stars, what these stars would 8

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be like and how their personas would be developed. However, because the cinematic stars did not start their careers in the theatre, I focus on how their stardom developed in a different way. How did their careers begin? How did they attain their personas? How did they become ‘elevated’ figures? In doing so, not only do I consider the nature of their entry into the cinema and the various ways in which they were ‘managed’ but also their performances in their films.

Cinematic stardom and aesthetics With studies of 1930s French cinema concentrating mainly on a canon of masterpieces, many of the decade’s films have been dismissed and neglected; when they have been discussed, they have frequently been the subject of criticism. Most notably, this is the case with the period’s filmed theatre, which has received particularly strong condemnation. Because these films drew to a significant degree on theatrical traditions, they were considered by many to be an aesthetically regressive step. In the 1930s this criticism was voiced most famously by René Clair, a critic and filmmaker who made some of the most famous films of the early 1930s, such as À nous la liberté (1931), Le Million (1931) and Quatorze juillet (1932). In the opening of his 1929 article, ‘Talkie versus Talkie’, he made his views clear: ‘The cinema must remain visual at all costs: the advent of theatrical dialogue in the cinema will irreparably destroy everything I had hoped for it.’43 In contrast to these views, Marcel Pagnol and, later, Sacha Guitry, who were both famous playwrights-turned-filmmakers, argued for the importance of dialogue, with the former going so far as to claim: ‘Every talking film which can be projected in silence and remain comprehensible is a very bad talking film.’44 While audiences ultimately sided with filmed theatre over the more ‘cinematic’ alternative offered by Clair, critics tended to take the reverse position, celebrating Clair’s attempts to maintain the cinema’s medium specificity. Such a perspective also informs more recent accounts, with Jean-Pierre Jeancolas being critical of filmed theatre in his work of the early 1970s and Dudley Andrew also 9

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conveying critical dissatisfaction with these films in his book on poetic realism, Mists of Regret.45 Others, such as Vincendeau and O’Brien, have adopted a less evaluative perspective towards the aesthetics of filmed theatre.46 Vincendeau’s view on the subject is as follows: And rather than dismiss most of the 1930s mainstream production for what it was not (aesthetically or politically progressive), it is perhaps time to consider it for what it was: a popular entertainment form which, despite what we may think now, was relevant to its audience in many ways, not least in giving pleasure. Furthermore, one may disagree with the view, held among others by Jean-Pierre Jeancolas […], that only auteur films are of interest to the film historian. Run-of-the-mill features are not just the preserve of the sociologist; they also provide important clues to the functioning of cinema itself.47 Analysis of filmed theatre by scholars such as Vincendeau, O’Brien and Andrew has isolated its key aesthetic features. Of particular importance to this book on stardom is the observation that these films revolve almost entirely around dialogue and performers. This is summed up by Andrew: If you let yourself be inundated with French films of the 1930s, you will remember primarily the actors that come back film after film. And you will remember them largely because everything about the lighting, the mise-en-scène and, above all, the plot and dialogue has been arranged to accentuate their presence.48 Filmed theatre, therefore, consists of particular stylistic features that are designed to generate an experience akin to theatrical entertainment. Sometimes performers would even directly address the camera, as though speaking to the audience – a famous instance of this involves Sacha Guitry in Faisons un rêve (Sacha Guitry, 1936). When performers were not addressing the actual audience, they would frequently perform to a diegetic audience. This could be motivated by a theatrical performance within the 10

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story. For instance, in Le Schpountz (Marcel Pagnol, 1937), Irénée Fabre (Fernandel) has an audition for a film, in which he performs to a group of filmmakers (as well as to us). Filmed theatre also replicates a theatrical perspective by utilising many wide, ensemble, shots, often filmed in long takes, which enable audiences to appreciate the continuity of a star’s performance as well as their interaction with other performers. Most significantly, the camera tends to be positioned in the place of the ‘fourth wall’, further replicating the stage experience. Consequently, an important aspect of this form of cinema was the relationship it created with its audience. Charles O’Brien sums this up as follows: Whereas filmed-theatre productions à la synch-sound scenes in The Jazz Singer imply a viewer who recognizes himself/herself as part of a public gathering, co-present with other audience members as well as the film’s performer(s), operettas such as Le chemin du paradis suggest a viewer who loses awareness of his/ her presence in the auditorium space so as to become absorbed into the film’s flow of images and sounds.49 For O’Brien filmed theatre was an aesthetic that was less about immersion into a ‘flow of images’ and more about the construction of a communal experience between audience members. In this book, one of my main points of comparison between the theatrical stars, Hollywood stars and the cinematic stars centres upon a consideration of film aesthetics. Thus I will consider how entering the cinema directly affected the performance styles of the cinematic stars; how the cinematic stars are constructed by other aesthetic elements in their films, in comparison with the treatment that the theatrical stars receive; and how this created a different type of relationship with the audience. In addition, I also examine the contribution the cinematic stars make to the aesthetics of their films. Because they appear in some of the decade’s most canonic films, this provides an opportunity for assessing the input of people beyond the films’ ‘auteurs’, a consideration lacking from many accounts of these films. Indeed, as major figures, the cinematic stars were at the centre of their films, whether their directors liked it or not. 11

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Cinematic stardom and ideology While my study of non-theatrical female stardom aims to shed new light on the development of a specific French star system in the 1930s and its impact on film genres and aesthetics, it also offers the opportunity to reinvestigate the relationship between French cinema and society of the 1930s. In general, film stars tend not to be explicitly political (though there are notable exceptions, such as Jane Fonda) because voicing such views carries the risk of alienating potential fans. However, a central premise of Star Studies is that, as embodiments of dominant assumptions, values, ways of thinking and feeling, stars perform important ideological tasks. (I discuss this in more detail in the next section of this Introduction.) It is because of this that stars represent a key way through which cinema attains political significance, and another reason why a study of cinematic stardom can make a valuable contribution to knowledge of the decade’s cinema. Virtually all work focusing on the relationship between film and French society in the 1930s places great emphasis on the Popular Front, an important political movement of the mid-1930s. As I will be referring to this myself, throughout this book, here is a brief overview. The Popular Front arose in opposition to a growing wave of fascism, which erupted in France in the early 1930s, leading to a riot on 6 February 1934. To create a challenge to this rise in fascism, a coalition was formed between the three major left-wing parties in France at the time: the Radicals, Socialists and Communists. In May 1936 the coalition gained a parliamentary majority, which brought Léon Blum’s Popular Front government to power. Though its reign was brief (it was in office for just over a year), a number of important legal and social reforms were made, including, most famously, the introduction of the forty-hour working week and paid holidays, initiatives that brought more leisure time to French citizens. Exploring the relationship between these events and the period’s cinema, studies have focused on the few politically engaged films produced during this time.50 Other work has discussed the political films made by the decade’s ‘auteurs’. In particular, Renoir’s Le Crime de Monsieur Lange (1936), La Marseillaise (1937) 12

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and La Vie est à nous (1936) have generated great interest, due to their treatment of issues relating to the Popular Front. But because these studies reduce the cinema of the 1930s to the work of a small sample of auteurs, they imply that auteurs are ‘enlightened individuals’ who are best able to provide an accurate representation of such events. Epitomising this perspective, Jeancolas argues that 1930s popular cinema teaches us nothing about 1930s France: ‘Plays, boulevard comedies, music hall, melodrama, adaptations, everything was in a different timewarp, in an undefined space filled with the same divans, the same lacquer furniture, the same rugs.’51 Writing from a perspective inspired by Althusserian Marxism, Jeancolas’s essay is a clear product of the post-1968 French intellectual climate and so it’s unsurprising he adopts such a negative view towards the popular cinema of the 1930s. Such studies also often fail to consider the extent to which the great directors were themselves influenced by historical and cultural forces. Recent research has been more alert to this. For instance, Andrew moves beyond the notion that the decade’s auteurs were transcendental artists existing outside of history, with his discussion of poetic realism placing the films within a range of social and cultural contexts. In a more sustained way that is, moreover, especially sensitive to auteur cinema’s interaction with popular film, Burch and Sellier discuss the often-conflicting ideologies at work in the films of some of the decade’s most celebrated filmmakers. In a similar vein, O’Shaughnessy challenges the belief that Renoir’s Popular Front films were coherent political statements. Referring to work on Renoir’s films by Buchsbaum, Faulkner and Fofi, he writes: all three tend to underplay the complexity of the films’ engagement with a tormented period. They do not transparently reflect Frontist ideology or a specific conjuncture. They need to be considered as active interventions in a contested and evolving terrain, interventions which pursue ideological struggle in the arena of representation and have to find their own way to politicise cinema while reaching out to a popular audience.52 Rather than seeing films as advancing clear and coherent political agendas, work like this highlights the complexity of a film’s 13

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ideological processes. Such a perspective is useful because it enables fruitful analyses of the relationship between society and all films, not just the canon. In her work on 1930s French cinema, Vincendeau discusses the centrality of the theme of nostalgia. This is present in many of the period’s films, such as Pépé le Moko (Julien Duvivier, 1937), in which the eponymous protagonist, who is in exile in Algeria, dreams of his past life in Paris. Of particular importance to this book, Vincendeau argues that the close connection between cinema and theatre in the 1930s is also related to nostalgia; the evocation of these theatrical forms reminds audiences of dying types of entertainment associated with the past.53 Such discourses found great popularity in a rapidly changing and ever more uncertain world, as Andrew points out: ‘As France’s economic and international situation grew more disturbing, as its increasingly urban populace became more alienated, the cinema conveyed the security of a former identity, the persistence of an endless Belle Epoque.’54 Such a regressive tendency existed in the 1930s alongside more modern ideas, evident in broader culture with the rise of Art Deco, which affected fashion, art and architecture; in industry, with an increase in factories using modern production methods; and in politics, particularly through the modernising agenda of the Popular Front government. These modern discourses were also present in the decade’s cinema. Andrew and Ungar have discussed the presence of Art Deco in the period’s films, as well as in the architecture of some of the cinemas (such as the Rex in Paris) where people watched them.55 A primary concern of this book is to consider the way this conflict between tradition/nostalgia and modernity functioned in relation to the cinematic stars. In particular, I would like to consider this conflict in terms of gender. The study of gender in the cinema of the decade has gone hand in hand with the shift from the canonic directors to a larger corpus. One of the problems with work that has focused on a narrow selection of ‘auteur’ films is that there has been a tendency to privilege analyses of class rather than gender. There are exceptions: Geneviève Sellier’s work on Jean Grémillon56 places great emphasis on gender and so too does Sandy Flitterman-Lewis in 14

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her discussion of Marie Epstein, one of the few female directors working in France in the 1930s.57 More recently, Burch and Sellier have reconsidered canonic films of the 1930s from the perspective of gender, a project also pursued by O’Shaughnessy in his analysis of Renoir, and by Conway in her discussion of Valentine (Florelle) in Le Crime de Monsieur Lange, on which she writes: ‘Her performance of the realist song, with its sense of working-class urban space, its cynicism, and its valorization of women’s experience, is a key part of the film’s nuanced representation of women.’58 While Renoir’s films are aesthetically and politically revered, Burch and Sellier argue that they contain a plurality of perspectives on gender, ranging from representations of empowered women, such as Valentine in Le Crime de Monsieur Lange, to more misogynistic visions, such as the treatment of women in La Chienne (1931). Focusing on a broad corpus of work, Vincendeau, and Burch and Sellier, have provided key studies looking at gender relations in 1930s French cinema. In particular, they highlight the ubiquity of narratives dealing with relationships between older men and younger women. Such films frequently place the older man in a protective, fatherly role towards the young woman as well as in a romantic one – bordering on incest. Moreover, the older male often displaces a younger male in his acquisition of the woman. These relationships are central to the nationally specific representation of gender relations in the decade’s cinema, making it distinct from the cinema of Hollywood. As I discuss above, the dominance of older male performers stems in part from the close relationship between the theatre and cinema. Such narratives are also symptomatic of French society at this time. For instance, low birth rates and a depleted population after the First World War meant there was a shortage of young men. However, the relationships between older men and younger women also expose inequalities. Vincendeau writes: ‘The father-daughter scenario spells out, most obviously, a relation of power between generations and above all between genders.’59 Indeed, in the 1930s social conditions for women in France were significantly lower than in neighbouring countries. This is most explicitly clear when we consider the fact that although women were given the vote in Germany in 1918, in the USA in 1920 and in the United Kingdom in 1928, women 15

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were not allowed to vote in France until 1944. The extremity of the situation is discussed by Theodore Zeldin: The law still required the wife to obey the husband, in return for which the husband owed her ‘protection’. She had to reside wherever he chose and he was entitled to use force to compel her to do so. If she committed adultery, she was liable to imprisonment for a period of between three and twenty-four months, but he could engage in it with impunity. He committed a crime only if he actually maintained a concubine in the conjugal home, and then he was punished only by a fine of 100 to 2,000 francs. If he chanced to discover her committing adultery and killed her, he would not be guilty of murder – but she was not allowed to attack him in similar circumstances. She could not go to law without his permission, even if she had her own business and she could not sell or buy without his approval.60 At the same time, there has been discussion of more positive depictions of women in 1930s French cinema. For instance, Conway argues that although chanteuses réalistes embodied an oldfashioned form of femininity, which essentially presented women as victims, they also expressed more emancipating ideas: chanteuses réalistes frequently possessed an active sexuality, encouraged female identification and dramatised the creation of female communities. Vincendeau’s essay ‘Melodramatic Realism: On Some French Women’s Films of the 1930s’ also explores the existence of progressive discourses in a number of films centring upon female protagonists.61 Of crucial importance, she highlights the significance of the ‘modern woman’, a form of femininity that rose with the modern discourses I have outlined above. I discuss the modern woman in detail in Chapter 2. As young women who went directly into the cinema, the cinematic stars frequently portrayed the daughters in the decade’s quasi-incestuous relationships. But as I shall argue, because they were young and because they entered the cinema directly these stars were also associated with the modern. Consequently, they present a valuable opportunity for investigating relations between the genders. Moreover, as stars, their significance to 16

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such tensions goes further. Because the majority of film personnel in France in the 1930s were male, such as writers, directors and producers, it is unsurprising that patriarchal representations were so hegemonic. However, female stars can do much to heighten the presence of progressive female discourses – while the cinematic stars emerged from a patriarchal society and were created to a significant degree by their film roles (which were usually written and directed by men), there was much scope for female involvement in the creation of their personas. First, by not coming from the theatre, the cinematic stars would potentially be able to escape traditional theatrical roles. Also, their fresh performance styles could generate important emancipating meanings. In addition, their personas were created by articles in fan magazines, such as Pour Vous, which is significant because, while the writing staff at this magazine was largely male, there were a number of female writers who would discuss stars, particularly in relation to clothing and fashion. In the chapters that follow I consider the ways in which the personas of the cinematic stars function ideologically and how this affects their film appearances. Here I will consider both canonic and non-canonic films. Indeed, it is my intention to add to O’Shaughnessy’s, and Burch and Sellier’s reinvestigation, from a gender perspective, of some of the decade’s masterpieces, particularly through my consideration of a number of René Clair, Julien Duvivier and Marcel Carné films. In discussing the social significance of cinematic stardom I am particularly interested in considering the stars’ representations of gender in relation to the broader socio-political context. As I discuss above, the majority of studies focusing on the relationship between the cinema and the Popular Front have focused on the canon. However, some work has also considered the Popular Front in relation to the popular cinema of the period. For example, Geneviève Guillaume-Grimaud considers a broad corpus of work in Le Cinéma du Front Populaire,62 as does Vincendeau in ‘The Popular Cinema of the Popular Front’.63 Because stars are a useful way of exploring the relationship between contradictions in films and in society, my discussion of cinematic stardom will be well positioned to build on such work. 17

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Approach I would now like to finish this introduction by providing an overview of the methodology that informs this book. Here I will outline the ways I approach the three main areas discussed above – industry, aesthetics and, the most methodologically complicated of these, ideology. My analysis of the relationship between cinematic stardom and the French film industry draws mostly upon empirical research. In order to learn about the circumstances surrounding the cinematic stars’ entries into cinema I have used biographical evidence and have thoroughly scanned contemporary fan magazines. To consider the creation of the cinematic stars’ personas I use empirical data as well as theory advanced by Richard Dyer in Stars. Dyer argues that a star’s ‘image’ or ‘persona’ is made up of their appearances in promotion, publicity, film criticism and films. By following this approach, I explain the nature of the cinematic stars’ personas, how they came about and how they were comparable to or different from those of the theatrical stars and Hollywood stars. But in investigating the cinematic stars’ relationship with the French film industry I am concerned not only with their entry into the cinema and the construction of their personas but also with the nature of their stardom: for instance, in order to assess the extent of their stardom I discuss popularity polls, their prominence in film posters and title sequences, and their coverage in fan magazines. Moreover, I also draw upon Dyer’s notion that a fundamental feature of stardom is that it involves a simultaneous embodiment of ordinariness and extraordinariness. In order to determine the nature of the ordinariness and extraordinariness of the cinematic stars, theatrical stars and Hollywood stars, I again return to their films and fan magazine appearances. Indeed, in analysing the aesthetic relationship between the cinematic stars and their films, I draw upon many films from the period. While my viewing of the cinematic stars’ films of the 1930s has not been absolutely exhaustive (a number of films are no longer available, some seem to be lost altogether), I have managed to view a considerable proportion of them. My examination of the cinematic stars’ appearances is attentive to the following: how 18

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they are positioned within the broader style of their films; how this affects their personas; how their star status is presented; their contribution to the meanings and affects of the films themselves. Here I have considered such elements as camera (framing, angle, distance), editing, lighting and the physical appearance of the stars – their type of beauty, make-up, hairstyles and clothes. I also consider the stars’ initial ‘entrances’ in films, which I see as key aspects of their ‘star treatment’. Above all else, I have been keen to focus on the cinematic stars’ performance styles. Their not coming from the same acting background as the theatrical stars is an important issue. Here I have drawn upon a range of work focusing on film performance. Ben Brewster and Lea Jacobs,64 and Roberta Pearson65 have provided comprehensive accounts of ‘theatrical’ acting in silent film, with the former dedicating a chapter specifically to ‘The Pictorial Style in European Cinema’. James Naremore’s Acting in the Cinema has been particularly useful – he devotes a large section to ‘star performances’ in which he discusses the acting styles of some of Hollywood’s most famous stars, such as Lillian Gish, Marlene Dietrich and Charlie Chaplin, to name a few. In discussing this, he stresses the importance of identifying a star’s ‘ideolect’: ‘A set of performing traits that is systematically highlighted in films and sometimes copied by impressionists.’66 In the following chapters I too place great importance upon acting and identifying stars’ ideolects. Just as Dyer established Star Studies, Laura Mulvey’s seminal ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’, as well as some of her subsequent work, has been hugely influential in opening up the study of gender in Film Studies.67 My research pursues key agendas established at the crossroads of these fields, namely to investigate the relationship between notions of femininity, film aesthetics and the broader context of patriarchal society. In pursuing these aims within the context of 1930s French cinema I have been influenced by Burch and Sellier’s work on the ‘war of the sexes’ in the films of this period (discussed above). In this they show that shifts in gender relations closely correspond to changes in the broader socio-political context, something that is most persuasively illustrated by their observation that in films that were released shortly after the beginning of the Second World War there is ‘a veritable 19

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overthrow of the Law of the Father, in favor of a fantasmatic “law of the mother”’.68 This shift was indicative of a ‘crisis in masculinity’ in broader French society. On this they write: Thus the cinema bears witness – more than any other means of expression, it seems to us – to the destabilization of the relations between the sexes in French society of the 1940s, brought about by political and military events. We study here the repercussions of these in the private sphere, which has traditionally been considered as following another time scale: the longue durée of Fernand Braudel and the history of mentalities. (The sensitiveness of the cinema to the upheavals in gender relations due to the war and the Occupation prove, if this were necessary, to what extent the private sphere is political.)69 Burch and Sellier analyse gender relations in all the French films made between 1930 and 1955. By considering such a broad corpus of work they are able to notice, with great accuracy, shifts in how the relations between the sexes are represented, which correspond to broader socio-political events (such as the beginning of the Second World War). My analysis of cinematic stardom draws upon a narrower body of work. However, by focusing on three extremely popular stars I use an alternative approach to the identification of shifts in gender relations. Whereas Burch and Sellier place the emphasis on changes in how gender was represented and dealt with in the films’ narratives, my argument considers other dimensions of stardom, especially performance and the ability of stars to represent particular historical developments. Drawing on the work of Dyer, my argument is that stars crystallise and authenticate values at particular times, through their looks, their performance styles and their ability to perform social roles that correspond with large-scale social changes.70 Consequently, it is my contention that each of the cinematic stars I study in detail became popular at particular points in the 1930s because they embodied values that were important at these moments in time. Although precise statistics relating to the popularity of particular stars do not exist for the period before the Second World War, there are a number of indicators that highlight the extent of their 20

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appeal. These include audience polls, cinema owners’ analyses of returns, posters and film credits as well as the degree of exposure the stars receive in fan magazines. In adopting this approach I explore a key ideological theme that runs throughout this book: as we shall see, Annabella, Darrieux and Morgan are not only collectively a symptom of change; they are also linked in a diachronic narrative sequence – in terms of their emergence and peak of popularity – that reveals shifting notions of femininity in France in the 1930s, developments that are inextricably bound with the huge changes in French politics and society that were brought about by the Popular Front. However, before I move on to my case studies of the cinematic stars, it is first of all necessary to consider the other dominant forms of stardom they were in competition with, defined themselves against, and borrowed elements from: the period’s theatrical and international stars, whom I will look at in Chapters 1 and 2, respectively.

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1

Female theatrical stardom in 1930s French cinema

In this chapter I will examine female theatrical stardom of the 1930s, which was a hugely popular part of the decade’s cinema. Because the cinematic stars would be defined in relation to this, such a consideration is crucial groundwork for the case studies that follow. In order to provide an overview of some of the most significant theatrical stars I will consider key instances of ‘melodramatic’ performers, boulevard comediennes and a group of female stars who, while not starting their careers on the dramatic stage, used theatricality to create popular portrayals of the garce (bitch). In each case we shall see that theatrical performance is channelled into the expression of particular ‘types’, which brings about important ideological consequences.

Tearful women: Female stars of melodrama One of the top stage stars of 1930s French cinema was Gaby Morlay. Her huge appeal at this time is indicated by her high position in a number of popularity polls of the period – for example, she was the top female star of 1936.1 Her career started in the early 1910s when she appeared in a number of revues, plays and films; by the time the sound cinema began, she was already in her midthirties. Although she conducted simultaneous stage and screen careers, her association with the theatre was strongest. Drawing on André Sallée, Conway comments: ‘Morlay was so closely associated with the theater [ ... ] that most of her 100-odd films are seen as documenting French theatrical performance in the early twentieth century.’2 Many of the plays and films she performed 22

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in were part of the boulevard comedy tradition that I will discuss shortly. For example, she appeared in works by Sacha Guitry, the key figure in this milieu, such as Un soir quand on est seul in 1917 and Quadrille in 1938. (She also appeared in the film version of this play in the same year.) She acted in ‘serious’ drama, such as the work of Henry Bernstein, appearing, for example, in film versions of such Bernstein classics as Mélo (Paul Czinner, 1932), Le Bonheur (Marcel L’Herbier, 1935) and Samson (Maurice Tourneur, 1936), as well as on stage in Félix (1926), Venin (1927), Le Secret (1928), Mélo (1929) and Le Messager (1933).3 A consideration of Morlay’s performance in one of these, Le Bonheur, reveals important aspects of her theatrical stardom. She plays the role of a film star called Clara Stewart, who is shot, but not fatally, by Philippe Lutcher (Charles Boyer), an anarchist, disgusted by the cult of celebrity. In an unusual turn of events, they then fall in love and, when he is released from jail, become a couple, until he leaves her at the film’s conclusion. The film contains a mix of the ‘theatrical’ – due to the stage material it is based on and the film’s stars – and the cinematic: it was directed by Marcel L’Herbier, who in the 1920s was one of the main contributors to the avant-garde French impressionist cinema (I discuss this movement further in Chapter 3). As Andrew writes: ‘L’Herbier continued to proclaim the primacy of the “cinematographic” over the “theatrical” even as he learned to compromise with adaptations of plays.’4 Indicative of L’Herbier’s willingness to engage with the theatrical is the fact that he cast Morlay in four other films during the 1930s: Le Scandale (1934), Nuits de feu (1937), La Mode rêvée (1939), and Entente cordiale (1939). To some extent, the way he photographs her reflects his interest in the ‘cinematic’; distinct from filmed theatre’s tendency to capture scenes in wide shots and long takes, she is shown in a number of close-ups. Also, she is also filmed in many wider shots, which replicate the experience of seeing her on stage. Moreover, while L’Herbier retains some of his ‘cinematic’ vision, Morlay’s acting is resolutely theatrical. Her acting talents are showcased when at one point we witness Clara singing on stage. To enhance the impression that we, the audience in the cinema, are being given the experience of a Morlay stage show, in a number of shots in Le Bonheur she is shown 23

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from the point of view of the film’s diegetic audience, which enables us to experience her broad gestures and command of the stage. Moreover, her entrance is itself a theatrical set piece: she appears on a staircase that seems to ascend all the way to heaven, wearing a sparkling, glamorous dress, making her reminiscent of the period’s top music hall stars, like Mistinguett. Even when L’Herbier presents her in a series of close-ups, she maintains her theatrical performance style, making large movements of her eyes as she looks upwards and bringing her hands into frame, clasping them together to depict her efforts to hold on to the feelings that she is singing about. As she does this, we are shown close-ups of the audience, lost in their adoration for her. As a successful star, and one who has a hypnotic effect on her audience, Clara is depicted as being a powerful and independent woman. Morlay would frequently play characters who were somewhat unruly in their behaviour, something that would often manifest itself through her portrayal of seducers and adulterers. Such independence was also consonant with her off-screen, offstage life. For instance, she was well known as the first French woman to get a pilot’s licence for a dirigible, something that was discussed in an article in Pour Vous on film stars and aviation.5 This stressed her interest in an exciting life beyond domestic femininity. Nevertheless, in Le Bonheur, as in most of her films, Morlay’s independence is presented with a significant amount of disapproval and suspicion. In particular, it is critical of the cult of celebrity because of the power it gives to female stars. This concern is evident in an early scene in her hotel room. She is surrounded by an entourage of fawning admirers, including her husband (Jaque Catelain) and her manager (Michel Simon), and has many screaming fans outside the building calling up to her. However, her power is undermined by her shallowness and inauthenticity. The tone is set in the scene’s first shot: an iris out reveals a ridiculously large bouquet of flowers, which is moved from the frame by one of the hotel’s members of staff, revealing Clara stood behind – with another large bouquet behind her. In their over-the-top showiness, the bouquets are like Clara, whose clothes are similarly excessive: she wears a large piece of fur around her neck, a shiny gown, copious amounts of jewellery 24

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and an elaborate hat. But the element that is most important in creating Clara’s inauthenticity is Morlay’s acting, which presents her as someone wallowing pretentiously in her status as a big film star. In doing so, Morlay carries out what James Naremore refers to as ‘performance-within-performance’: Most film actors are acutely sensitive to the purely rhetorical need to make their ‘thought’ visible to the camera. Moreover, they must sometimes signal that they act persons who are acting. In these moments when deception or repression are indicated, the drama becomes a metaperformance, imposing contrary demands on the players: the need to maintain a unified narrative image, a coherent persona, is matched by an equally strong need to exhibit dissonance or expressive incoherence within the characterization.6 It becomes particularly clear that Clara is engaging in role-play when we see her lounging lethargically and confidently on the hotel room’s sofa, with the other people in the room crowded around her as a makeshift audience (Figure 1). Her husband tells her she should wave to her fans waiting for her outside, but she states that she is too tired after her long day travelling and talking to journalists. By performing this weariness in an over the top, energetic and gestural way, Clara’s protestations are clearly put on. Finally, after the intervention of her manager, she rises to her feet. Sighing and summoning her strength, she presents herself as noble and stoic, enduring the ‘hardships’ of stardom in order to bring happiness to her fans. One of the contradictions in her behaviour comes from the fact that she puts on a performance to an audience (the people in the room) because she enjoys acting and enjoys the attention, and yet the performance itself is concerned with her apparent wish to avoid another performance and another audience – waving to her fans outside. As the film progresses, Clara’s genuine feelings for Philippe begin to displace her inauthentic behaviour. This is evident when she waits nervously to find out what sentence he will be given for attempting to kill her (she is already in love with him at this point). While Morlay’s theatrical performance style is initially 25

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Figure 1

Gaby Morlay in Le Bonheur

channelled into her portrayal of Clara’s insincerity, from this point on it is used to convey the intensity of her emotion. In contrast to the previous scene in which Clara lounged self-importantly on a sofa, here she nervously perches on the edge of a chair. Her manager then enters the room and she runs over to him to ask him for news of the verdict. When he tells her that Philippe has been given a sentence of eighteen months, she turns from him and puts her hand to her face, looking upwards, striking a melodramatic gesture of woe. But the film’s penultimate scene, in which Clara and Philippe break up, provides the most extreme instance of Morlay’s emotional acting. Here the tension between her artifice and sincerity is made explicit, with Philippe initially suggesting that her emotional behaviour towards him is just a performance, stating ‘Well acted, very good scene’. The copious crying and pleading that follows shows beyond doubt that her feelings are genuine (here the film seems to punish her – rather like ‘the boy who cried wolf’ – for her earlier insincerity). In contrast to 26

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her previous control and mobility, she is now completely taken over by emotion. She falls to her knees, looking up at Philippe and dabbing her tears with her handkerchief. The extent of the transformation in her character and her performance is stressed as the scene finishes: while she initially lounged on a sofa and then perched on a chair, here she expresses the extent of her emotion by leaning on the arm of another chair and weeping. Throughout Le Bonheur Morlay’s theatrical acting is ideal for conveying particular notions of femininity. Initially, it is used to capture, criticise and undermine her artificial, independent behaviour; at the end it is used to celebrate her more ‘authentic’ femininity: intense emotions, irrationality, submissiveness, stasis, suffering and floods of tears. Morlay was not alone in creating such visions of melodramatic femininity in 1930s French cinema. Another key performer in this respect was Orane Demazis. Although she was not as popular as Morlay and does not appear in lists of the most popular stars of the decade, she was one of Marcel Pagnol’s ‘troupe’ of performers (they were also romantically linked). Consequently, she was in some of the most successful films of the decade and key instances of filmed theatre. The Pagnol films she appeared in were the Marseille trilogy – Marius (Alexander Korda, 1931), Fanny (Marc Allégret, 1932) and César (Marcel Pagnol, 1936) – and Angèle, Regain and Le Schpountz. Demazis’s personal and professional connection with Pagnol linked her strongly to the south of France. The first sentence of a section devoted to her in Inoubliables! emphasises an association with Marseille through reference to the city’s famous church: ‘Orane Demazis will live eternally under the invocation of Notre-Dame de la Garde.’7 But most significantly, she possessed a strong southern accent, an important element in Pagnol’s dialogue-driven films. Demazis spent a number of years working in the theatre before making her first film, Marius, a film in which her stage background is immediately noticeable. Although her first scene is not filmed in a single take, cutting is sparse and the camera generally remains in the location of the ‘fourth wall’ where the theatre audience would be. At one point, Marius (Pierre Fresnay) and Fanny (Demazis) are presented together in a shot that lasts for almost 27

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a minute, preserving both their interaction with each other and the continuity of their performances (Figure 2). Demazis’s theatricality is evident in a number of large gestures and expressions. When she asks Marius why he did not attend the previous night’s dance, she leans her whole body towards him and raises her eyebrows, clearly conveying her character’s inquisitiveness. His reply that he cannot dance makes her lean forwards even further, as she suggests that she could teach him. When he says that he does not want to learn how to dance, Fanny leans back quickly, straightening her posture, which conveys her rejection, as well as her suspiciousness: she next asks how he spent the evening (fearing that he may have been with another woman). But the most ‘theatrical’ moment in the scene occurs when she expresses her surprise that Monsieur Brun (Robert Vattier) went to Paris as a clerk and came back as an inspector: just as she has taken a sip of her coffee she holds her lips together (making them as small as possible) and lifts herself up in her seat, swallowing at the highest point. Her eyes go wider and her mouth makes the shape of an O as she says ‘Oooh, inspectors earn a lot of money’.

Figure 2

Pierre Fresnay and Orane Demazis in Marius

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Demazis’s theatrical performance style was channelled into her embodiment of a stock melodramatic type, the ‘abandoned woman’, which she portrayed in Angèle and, most famously, in Pagnol’s Marseille trilogy, in which she is abandoned by Marius, who has an obsessive desire to leave Marseille and travel the world as a sailor. This character type provides opportunities for scenes of intense pathos. A key instance of this occurs in Marius in the moments immediately after Marius has left her. In this scene, she is unselfishly guided by his interests: she talks to his father, César (Raimu), in order to distract him so that he will not try to prevent Marius from leaving. By focusing entirely on Fanny’s conversation with César, rather than on Marius as he leaves, the film privileges her reaction, aligning us with her emotional response to the events, rather than Marius’s or César’s. Here we witness her great restraint – at any point she could run out into the harbour and try to persuade Marius to return. The emotion generated by our sympathy for Fanny is intensified in a number of ways. In part her vulnerability is conveyed by her small frame, particularly as she is stood next to the bulky Raimu. Emotion is also generated in the scene through dramatic irony: as César discusses her future with Marius, Fanny pretends to be happy, but clearly isn’t. Here the scene involves Demazis enacting performance-withinperformance, but, in contrast to Clara’s role-play in Le Bonheur, Fanny’s performance involves repression rather than inauthenticity, which expresses her stoicism and altruistic behaviour, and in doing so promotes a regressive notion of self-sacrificial femininity. However, by the end of the scene, Fanny (now with César in his bedroom, which he has said she and Marius can have) cannot endure the intensity of the situation any longer. Tears well up in her eyes and her sadness threatens to break through her forced laughter. Then, as César talks about the possibility of her and Marius having children, she faints, which also hints at what will soon be known to her and others, that she is pregnant. Here, then, Demazis uses her theatricality to convey an image of female self-sacrifice, but also to capture the pathos and vulnerability of the abandoned woman. In the Marseille trilogy and in Angèle, Demazis portrays another important ‘type’: the mother. In interwar France moth29

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erhood was exalted, with successive governments adopting pronatalist policies as a response to the great loss of life that occurred during the First World War. However, as Vincendeau discusses, Pagnol’s films consistently place emphasis on the mother, in large part due to the generic conventions of melodrama: The emphasis on motherhood in the trilogy – as in all Pagnol’s work – [ ... ] relates more pertinently to generic structures, and in particular those of melodrama in which the classic opposition between the ‘good’ and the ‘bad’ woman is really an expression of the conflict between the woman as mother and the woman as individual subject.8 Indeed, Fanny makes many sacrifices for Césariot (André Fouché), her son, surrendering her status as an ‘individual subject’. In César we see that in Marius’s absence Fanny has lived a romantically and sexually barren (though otherwise comfortable) existence as the wife of Panisse (Fernand Charpin), sacrificing her own happiness for the sake of her son. In Demazis’s adoption of this role, we can again see the importance of her acting style. In contrast to her large and gestural performance in the scene at the beginning of Marius, when she sits on the bar in a carefree, lively way, as a mother she is more constricted and repressed. This is particularly evident when she sits rigidly in a large armchair as she tells Césariot that Panisse was not his father. While her head and face are used expressively, with her at one point shedding tears in close-up, these movements serve to emphasise the immobility of the rest of her body. As she sits in her chair, at the centre of the home, her pose captures her confinement, her lack of power, and her self-sacrifice, as a mother in 1930s French patriarchal society. In sum, while both Morlay and Demazis enact moments of agency and empowerment, their performance styles play a significant role in the expression of conservative ideological viewpoints, stressing – and helping the audience empathise with – their emotionality, vulnerability and confinement within traditional notions of femininity. However, stardom in 1930s French cinema contained a diverse range of ‘theatricalities’, which expressed 30

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numerous ideological positions. Another key type of theatrical star came from the period’s popular boulevard comedies.

Parisiennes: Female stars of boulevard comedy In focusing on female stars of boulevard comedy, I will consider an important figure frequently incarnated in this genre of entertainment, namely, the Parisienne. Not only was the Parisienne very much at home in Paris; she also embodied important elements of it, or at least its ‘female’ qualities: its spectacle and display. I shall discuss three key manifestations of this type, Arletty, Elvire Popesco and Jacqueline Delubac, who each provide different versions of it: Popesco is the cosmopolitan Parisienne, Delubac the high-society Parisienne, and Arletty, whom I will consider first, the working-class, populist Parisienne. Although Arletty is nowadays considered to be the figure most emblematic of female stardom in France in the 1930s, her big break, in Hôtel du Nord (Marcel Carné, 1938), came late in the decade, in 1938. However, during the 1930s she was a star of boulevard theatre, which followed an earlier career as a painters’ model (for Van Dongen, Braque and Matisse, among others), a fashion model and a performer in the Parisian music halls. Her film roles were usually as bawdy and witty characters, at least until Les Enfants du paradis (Marcel Carné, 1945), in which she played the more ethereal Garance, who as Turk points out ‘is a deliberate reversal of her prior persona’.9 Her crude humour was not only important in her film versions of boulevard plays, such as Fric-frac (Claude Autant-Lara and Maurice Lehmann, 1939), in which she reprised the role she had played on stage; as Vincendeau points out, even in films made from non-theatrical scenarios, stars of the theatre would often take roles similar to those that they took on stage.10 So, in the poetic realist films Hôtel du Nord and Le Jour se lève (Marcel Carné, 1939), Arletty is again a witty and rebellious populist Parisienne. Arletty’s working-class identity is conveyed to a large degree through the way she speaks. This has been analysed by Michel 31

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Chion, who discusses, for example, an instance in Hôtel du Nord in which she drops the ‘ne’ when she is negating a word, which he points out is a common feature of populist speech.11 In addition to her piercing, nasal and strongly (Parisian) accented voice, which she uses to make witty statements, Arletty’s physical appearance was central to her down-to-earth identity, as she was considered by many to lack the conventional good looks required of a film star. In an article in Cinémonde entitled ‘Êtesvous féminine/virile?’ (‘Are you feminine/virile?’), published a year after the release of Hôtel du Nord, Arletty’s persona was placed in relation to other quite different stars of the period, such as Michèle Morgan, Janine Darcey, Yvette Lebon and Ginette Leclerc.12 Through these stars’ responses to multiplechoice questions, the article determined that Arletty was least ladylike, placing her in contrast to the ‘winner’, Michèle Morgan (the subject of Chapter 5). Central to Arletty’s ‘unladylike’ persona was her active sexuality. This quality developed in earlier stages of her career, in her work as a model (including nudes for Van Dongen) and in the music hall, both of which were professions associated with a freer morality. Another important factor in Arletty’s development of a sexual persona was that at the time of her growing music hall and boulevard theatre career she was a quintessential example of la garçonne, a sexually liberated, more independent and more modern form of femininity (I shall discuss this type in more detail in the next chapter). Her sexuality is also evident in her films. In Hôtel du Nord not only is Raymonde (Arletty) a prostitute; she is also a character who is very open about her sexuality, saying at one point to her boyfriend Edmond (Louis Jouvet): ‘We may quarrel, but we get along fine when we hit the sheets.’ In Le Jour se lève, Clara (Arletty) is immediately established as a sexual character, flirtatiously stating to François (Jean Gabin) in their first conversation: ‘I’m sick of men who talk of love. They talk about it so much, they forget to make it.’ The film even had a brief scene featuring Arletty nude, but it was cut from the final print (photographs from it survive). To some extent Arletty portrays a strong, independent woman who consistently challenges the men around her. In many of her 32

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films this is done through her powerful wit, moments at which she is clearly drawing on skills developed in the boulevard theatre. Indeed, Hôtel du Nord’s status as a poetic realist film has been questioned by Vincendeau, who points out that the film is too light-hearted and amusing, making it distinct from such bleak films as Le Quai des brumes (Marcel Carné, 1938) and La Bête humaine (Jean Renoir, 1938)13 – much of this light-heartedness comes from Raymonde’s humorous confrontations with men. Central to her rebellion is Arletty’s performance style, which conveys her characters’ energy and confidence. This is the case near the beginning of Hôtel du Nord when she brusquely objects to a policeman’s interrogation of Edmond. Initially, we see her leaning against the bar in the background, a pose that projects an image of relaxedness and control. As Edmond continues to be questioned, she becomes more irate, using her piercing voice and rapid vocal delivery as a weapon, particularly by emphasising her consonants, which adds harshness to her words. This is combined with quick movements of her face and body, with her at one point turning from the policeman so that her back faces him and then angrily spinning back when he asks for her papers. Even when he announces that he is going to take her to the police station, she maintains her image of control: she sarcastically says ‘fantastique!’ (emphasising the q), tucks her handbag under her arm, indignantly paces across the room to get her scarf, throws it around her neck, passes the bar – pausing momentarily to ask where Edmond is – and then, without a moment’s further hesitation, walks quickly from the hotel and gets into the back of the police car. However, such incidents also indicate the limitations of her rebellion and the extent to which her confidence is mere ‘display’. Her conflict with the policeman leads to her spending a number of days in a police cell and Edmond gives her a black eye for her (correct) accusation that he is interested in Renée (Annabella). The scene that follows this violent reaction dramatises the tension between her display of control and her actual disempowerment. On the one hand, because of his potential to be violent, she backs down to Edmond’s patronising questioning. On the other hand, she maintains a degree of defiance through how she speaks 33

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to him, remaining stubborn and aggressive, as well as by maintaining some of her wit: Edmond: Raymonde: Edmond: Raymonde:

You still think I’ve got my eye on Renée? No! No yes? Or no no? No no! Look at me. Can’t see out of my left eye. It’s like losing a limb. Edmond: Are you ready? Raymonde: Yes! Edmond: Yes yes? Or yes no? Raymonde: Yes crap. I’d say more, but it’s Sunday. This scene highlights that Arletty’s boulevard theatre wit, delivered with characteristic energy, is used not only to challenge men but also to make her submission to them more bearable. Consequently, we can see that her persona serves to illustrate and make palatable the limitations of working-class women in French society. Indeed, this is the essence of the ideological operation at work in her persona: despite a display of empowerment, which comes from her performance style and wit, her persona ultimately encourages women to opt for apathy and resignation in their relationships with men, naturalising and validating the entrapment of women, particularly such ‘unruly’ ones. Similar tensions existed in the persona of Elvire Popesco. Born in Bucharest, she was contracted by Louis Verneuil in 1923 to appear in his stage play, Ma cousine de Varsovie, which started a long professional (and personal) relationship between the two. She appeared in nine of his plays between 1923 and 1932 and on entering the cinema was also in a number of film adaptations of his works, taking, for example, the same role in Ma cousine de Varsovie (Carmine Gallone, 1931) that she had performed on stage. She also worked for other major names in boulevard theatre, starring in the stage version of Jacques Deval’s Tovaritch and appearing in Sacha Guitry’s Ils étaient neuf célibataires (Sacha Guitry, 1939). Despite being largely forgotten now, Popesco’s work in cinema was very successful and she attained high positions in a number of popularity polls.14 34

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In her plays and films Popesco’s national identity was often ambiguous, with her portraying characters from a range of countries (often Eastern European). At the same time, as a chic society woman, who would dress elegantly in haute couture, she was very much a quintessential Parisienne (her love of fashion was discussed in an article in Pour Vous, entitled: ‘40 ans, l’âge de l’élégance’).15 Her embodiment of this type is most immediately apparent through her opulent features: along with her fashionable clothing she would have carefully coiffured, blonde hair, long eyelashes built up with mascara, very narrow plucked eyebrows and thick lipstick (Figure 3). In Ils étaient neuf célibataires, Popesco’s ambiguous national identity is summed up by Jean Lécuyer (Sacha Guitry) who tells his friend that, although she is not French, ‘she’s a Parisienne’. This had been observed a couple of years earlier in a Pour Vous article on fashion entitled ‘Élégance française’, in which it was stated: ‘As for Elvire Popesco, although born a foreigner, she is more Parisian than many French people.’16 This combination of the foreign and the Parisian – as a cosmopolitan Parisienne – was central to her identity.

Figure 3

Elvire Popesco in Ils étaient neuf célibataires 35

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Popesco’s persona also stressed her possession of an active sexuality, a quality that made her, like Arletty, typical of stars of boulevard comedy. Much of this stemmed from her ‘voluptuous’, blonde, seductive appearance, but it also came from her roles in boulevard plays, many of which were concerned with adultery. This was the case, for example, in Ma cousine de Varsovie, in which the following occurs. Archibald’s (Gustave Gallet) friend Hubert (André Roanne) sleeps with Archibald’s wife Lucienne (Madeleine Lambert). For this reason Archibald asks his cousin Sonia (Popesco) from Warsaw to visit with the intention of persuading her to seduce Hubert. However, the plan backfires when Archibald himself becomes attracted to Sonia. Such plots were typical of the boulevard theatre. Popesco’s portrayal of a cosmopolitan Parisienne owes much to her highly energetic performance style, something that is evident in one of the opening scenes of Ils étaient neuf célibataires, in which she (as Comtesse Stacia Batchefskaïa) enters a restaurant to talk to someone about a new immigration policy that will adversely affect her. Jean Lécuyer (Guitry) is also in the restaurant, sat at a table opposite, and much of the scene involves him staring at her admiringly and her trying to avoid his gaze. The costume she wears is extremely chic (though flashy) – her hat in particular is luxurious and decorative. However, its complete immobility contrasts with the ‘large’, manic movements of her body, limbs and face. For instance, in addition to banging into people as she enters and exits the restaurant, she takes off her gloves by pulling roughly at them and scrunching them up into a ball before throwing them to the table. She also growls at Lécuyer as he watches her and delivers rapid, punctuated dialogue in different pitches, frequently rolling her Rs in extravagant ways. Her anxiety about the immigration policy, her anger at Lécuyer’s objectifying gaze and her energetic movements and gestures convey her antagonism towards constraints, her desire for independence. Indeed, she would often have a degree of agency in her plays/films as she pursued her own goals. However, as with Arletty, Popesco’s ‘resistance’ is undermined. In part this is because her energies are presented less as a justified response to the constraints that are imposed upon women 36

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in a patriarchal society and more as the surfacing of an essential, irrepressible ‘foreignness’ – this is conveyed in particular through her ‘savage’ growl at Lécuyer. In addition, Popesco’s performance gives the impression that to some extent she actively constrains her rebellious energies in order to project, as a Parisienne, an image of sophistication. In doing so, she dramatises a tension between control and lack of control, flitting between expressing her annoyance in short sharp bursts and behaving with moments of refinement and elegance. While attempts to reconcile agency with the Parisienne’s emphasis on spectacle and display could be shown to be empowering, for Guitry they are a source of comedy. By being presented as actively soliciting attention, through her flamboyant and extravagant appearance, while expressing great annoyance at being looked at, Popesco is ridiculed, her resistance dismissed. For another consideration of the ideological operation of the Parisienne, I would now like to turn to Jacqueline Delubac. Like Popesco, Delubac appeared in plays and films about adultery in a bourgeois milieu, largely because nearly all her performances during the 1930s were in plays or films by Sacha Guitry, the leading specialist in this kind of narrative. In these works she was often his love interest, mirroring off-screen events: in 1935 she married him becoming his third wife (after another French film star of the 1930s, Yvonne Printemps). Although she was originally from Lyon, Delubac was a perfect example of the high society Parisienne: elegant, refined, beautiful and immaculately dressed – a more understated and chic version of Popesco. Indeed, wearing haute couture clothing was central to her persona: ‘In the city, like on the stage or on the screen, that pretty young woman doesn’t hesitate to dress very fashionably, I would go further and say: “well ahead of fashion”.’17 Her refined beauty would often be celebrated in her films through close-ups, even though she predominantly performed in filmed theatre, a form that as we have seen privileged wide, ensemble shots, imitating a theatrical perspective. For instance in Faisons un rêve a lengthy conversation between ‘The Wife’ (Delubac) and ‘The Husband’ (Raimu) progresses from wide shots to close-ups (Figure 4). This showcases her beauty and enables us to enjoy her exceptional attire: she is wearing a jacket with a large 37

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Figure 4

Jacqueline Delubac in Faisons un rêve

collar of luxurious fur, a dainty hat with flowers perched on her head and large shiny earrings. As with Arletty and Popesco, Delubac’s theatrical acting facilitates her portrayal of the Parisienne. However, in contrast to their energetic performances, Delubac’s style consists more of control and elegance. This is evident in the opening scene of Faisons un rêve, which takes place at a party she is hosting with her husband. Her sophistication is partly conveyed through her costume: she wears jewellery and a long dress, with large shoulders. Throughout the scene, which focuses on conversations between different groups of people at the party, she makes small talk with her guests and checks on the catering. Unlike the shorter skirts worn by Arletty and Popesco, which assist their mobility, Delubac’s long dress creates the impression that she is gracefully gliding around the room, particularly because she moves with an upright posture and her arms by her sides. This composed quality is also conveyed through her ‘definite’ movements – when she turns her head to look at someone, this is done in one clear turn. She rests her head in that position for at least a few seconds, before making another movement. This acting style is central to her representation of 38

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how the society woman ‘should’ behave: she is restrained and passive, and an ornamental object of beauty, who displays the wealth and status of her husband. Despite this, Delubac gains some power in the bourgeois world she occupies. This is made possible because of her knowledge of its ‘rules’ and conventions. While she waits with her husband (to meet Guitry’s character, ‘The Lover’), he anxiously explains in a lengthy conversation that he needs to leave because he has an appointment to meet a South American businessman. Aware that he is lying, she raises various objections, trying to catch him out. Here she is to some extent continuing to perform her social role, as a society wife should keep a careful watch over her husband’s activities. However, what Delubac enacts is a parody of this role: she is not really bothered about what he is doing and whom he is with. Rather than making things difficult for him through fear that he is having an affair, she is motivated by an enjoyment of watching him lie and squirm. Her performance-within-performance is most apparent when she is sat at the desk with Raimu, facing slightly away from him. This gives her the opportunity to emphasise both parts of her performance: as she looks at Raimu she presents herself as she wants him to see her, but as she looks away she allows us – but not Raimu – to see her laughing, enabling us to see the extent to which she is enjoying making things difficult for him. Later in the film, The Wife shows similar awareness of her freedom and its limitations when she has an extra-marital affair with The Lover (which also highlights that Delubac’s persona, like Arletty’s and Popesco’s, contains an active sexuality). The ensuing sequence explores the significance of such an infidelity. When she accidentally falls asleep in The Lover’s apartment, she does not express any moral concern at engaging in adulterous behaviour. Instead, her fear is that her husband will find out and divorce her, causing her to lose her place in society and the luxury to which she has become accustomed. This suggests that, in the high society world of appearances, a society woman can engage in an affair, because it becomes a transgression only if she is caught. The Wife thus attempts to use the world of high society to gain whatever pleasure she can without transgressing: she does not aim to challenge or change this world. 39

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Arletty, Popesco and Delubac share a number of similarities as stars of the boulevard. All three use their theatrical acting to embody the inherently theatrical Parisienne. In each case the relationship between the façade and the reality constitutes much of the pleasure of the characters played by the star. But it also exposes the nature of the stars’ ideological operations: Arletty’s display of power and confidence is in contrast to her actual servitude; Popesco’s manic rebelliousness is discredited as being indicative of her innate foreignness and her failure to sufficiently attain the refinement the Parisienne should possess; Delubac’s representation of an elegant Parisienne, and her use of this to her own advantage, ultimately reveals the gender inequalities she must negotiate. While the personas of Arletty, Popesco and Delubac emphasise various strategies for resistance, in the end they expose the limited parameters of the Parisienne’s empowerment.

Les garces: New stars in old roles So far I have discussed the determining role of theatrical acting and stock theatrical types on the personas of some of the decade’s top female theatrical stars. I would now like to consider three stars who did not start their careers on the dramatic stage, but who, like the stars already considered, possessed theatrical performance styles and personas based on old female archetypes: Mireille Balin, Ginette Leclerc and Viviane Romance. Leclerc came nearest to having established theatrical fame before appearing in films, owing to her music hall career, and Romance did some work at the Moulin Rouge as a backing dancer for Mistinguett. By contrast, Balin went directly into the cinema. Thus, because they did not have established theatre careers by the time they became film stars, they could to some extent be considered to be cinematic stars. They were also similar to the cinematic stars who form the core of this book for another reason too – all three were young and very attractive. Indeed, Mireille Balin was a former model and Romance won the Miss Paris title in 1931. However, in other ways the newness of Balin, Leclerc and Romance was reduced by their personification of an 40

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old-fashioned ‘type’: the ‘garce’ (‘bitch’).18 While Romance and Leclerc embody the ‘garce pauvre’ (‘poor bitch’), Balin was a ‘garce riche’ (‘rich bitch’), belonging to higher society. This aspect of her persona is evident in an advertisement for diamonds that she appeared in, which highlights her connection with luxury: ‘The Burma jewellery appreciated by Mireille Balin.’19 Leclerc’s most famous portrayal of the garce was in La Femme du boulanger (Marcel Pagnol, 1938) in which, as Aurélie (the title character), she runs away with a shepherd, cuckolding her husband, Aimable (Raimu). Romance embodied this type in such films as La Maison du Maltais (Pierre Chenal, 1938), Prisons de femmes (Roger Richebé, 1938) and La Belle équipe (Julien Duvivier, 1936). Mireille Balin portrayed such women in Gueule d’amour (Jean Grémillon, 1937) and Pépé le Moko. Burch and Sellier note that this type had precedents in ‘literary populism’,20 such as that of the Goncourt brothers, whose novels would often include an attractive woman who turns out to be an evil siren. Richard B. Grant writes: This use of a pretty mask to cover the vicious reality of woman was at times obsessive in the Goncourts. In Charles Demailly (1860), their next fictional effort, the hero is a writer who falls in love with a pretty actress, Marthe, but when they are married, the truth emerges: all she wants is money and worldly success. She persecutes her husband, destroys him as an artist, and drives him mad.21 Clearly the physical attractiveness of Balin, Leclerc and Romance was central to their embodiment of this type. But so too were their sexual, seductive qualities. The beauty of both Leclerc and Romance had a hard edge to it, due to their straight fringes and slightly angular features. Both also had fuller physiques, which within the conventions of the time signified their working-class identities as opposed to the more bourgeois thinness of Balin. Romance’s heightened sexuality was also partly related to her ambiguous ethnicity in a number of her films. Andrew and Ungar highlight that this is the case in La Maison du Maltais: ‘In Sfax, she had been down and out within a marginal community in a colonial port. Is she really, as she claims, a white woman from 41

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Marseilles? Her name, unusual and exotic, throws her identity in doubt.’22 Whereas Romance and Leclerc’s seductiveness was associated with their lower-class identity, Balin’s appeal stemmed from her place in a bourgeois demi-monde. Stehlin describes Balin in Gueule d’amour, writing: The character belongs to the category of venal women. In addition to the jewels, the white fur that elegantly covers her shoulders is an up-graded version of the mink, the cinematographic signifier of the prostitute. The luxury of her apartment clearly shows that she is a kept woman.23 Not only do these stars play old-fashioned roles; their performance styles are also similar to those of the stars of the theatre discussed above. For instance, the importance of acting to the embodiment of the garce is particularly clear in one of Romance’s scenes in La Maison du Maltais in which she, as Safia, goes out into the streets to retrieve her scarf, which, in anger, she has thrown from her window. When she is outside, her ‘authentic’ temper, witnessed by her female friends in the interior space, changes into a comical and sexually suggestive performance for a male public. She sees that Matteo (Marcel Dalio) seems to be hypnotised by the scarf, which he is holding out in front of himself. Playing up to the numerous male onlookers, Safia makes jokes at Matteo’s expense, juxtaposing his wonder with her down-to-earth-ness. This is mirrored in how they each hold the scarf: he treats it as a sacred object; she pulls it from him and waves it around carelessly. Also, her vulgarity is enhanced by the way she uses her body. At one point, realising he is looking at her chest, she looks down and, laughing, states: ‘Ah! These, baby, these are pomegranates from the Garden of Allah!’ While she does this she smiles a wicked smile and sticks her chest out, presenting herself less as an object of transcendence than one of sexual display. Indeed, as she covers herself up, she does so in an exaggerated way, which seems to mock modesty and codes of decency. In the films of Romance, Leclerc and Balin we witness the destructive power of their sexuality. For example, in La Femme du boulanger, when Aurélie leaves her husband, she causes great 42

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commotion. Because Aimable, the village’s baker, goes on strike, Aurélie’s infidelity has negative consequences for everyone in the community, thus exaggerating the disruptive effect of her sexuality. Romance plays a similarly disruptive role in La Belle équipe. Five friends win the lottery and set about investing their money in a country café. However, Charles’s (Charles Vanel) former wife, Gina (Romance), seduces another member of the group, Jean (Jean Gabin), causing a division that eventually leads to the group’s disintegration. When Gina performs the stereotypical act of putting on stockings in an embellished and sexually provocative way, in order to seduce Jean, we are provided with another key illustration of the theatricality of the garce (Figure 5). In Pépé le Moko, Pépé (Jean Gabin), who is in exile in Algeria, is seduced by Gaby (Balin), owing to her powerful sexuality as well as her association with Paris.24 So strong is Gaby’s seductiveness, it eventually leads Pépé to his death; he leaves the safety of his hideout in the

Figure 5 Jean Gabin and Viviane Romance in La Belle équipe. BFI Stills, Posters and Designs 43

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Casbah to find her before she departs for France. The police catch him, and as he watches Gaby’s boat leaving, he commits suicide. This sexual quality makes these stars similar to some of the stars already considered. However, the sexualities of Balin, Leclerc and Romance are more destructive, and they do not show any remorse about this. By not being made to redeem themselves, they can to some extent be seen to possess a degree of empowerment. Indeed, such a type, like the vamp and the femme fatale, offers the potential for female emancipation because of the exciting challenge it poses to male authority. The significance of such possibilities is reduced by the fact that the garce is de facto less powerful than the femme fatale and yet, as a result of her destructiveness, she still represents a misogynistic vision of femininity, which presents women as ‘inherently’ selfish, dangerous and duplicitous. The theatricality of the stars considered so far – of melodrama, boulevard theatre and the garces – was central to their embodiment of a range of old-fashioned femininities: it facilitates the representation of intense ‘female’ emotion and irrationality; it assists the portrayal of artificial and inauthentic women; it contributes to the depiction of women who are objects of display for the males who have economic power over them; and it captures their ‘dangerous’ sexuality through an intense physicality. This theatricality is a clear consequence not only of the fact that the majority of the playwrights of the time were male but also of the fact that they were drawing upon theatrical conventions that had been around for many years. Moreover, many of the plays these stars appeared in had been written a long time before they were made into films. For instance, Faisons un rêve was first performed in 1916, twentyone years before Delubac starred in the film version. This is not to say that modern sensibilities were not brought to these plays when they were filmed many years later; to some extent these stars were able to work against the grain of dated representations and as I have discussed they resisted patriarchy to varying degrees. However, the conservatism in their personas, stemming from their theatrical acting and the types they embodied, highlights the significant influence of the theatre in the construction of traditional notions of femininity in 1930s French cinema. 44

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These stars are all also alike because of their strong association with particular geographical spaces: regions, cities, milieux, Paris and the south of France in particular. This is not only because their film or stage roles would situate them in such locations in narratives but also because audiences would have been able to see a number of them in person in these places by going to see one of their plays. Their ‘grounding’ in geographical space was also facilitated by elements that emphasised their physicality. Of course, by seeing them live on stage, audiences would be able to view them as physical beings. But also, their corporeality was stressed through the large gestures and poses of their theatrical acting, their regional – thus down-to-earth – accents and their portrayals of weeping, energetic movement and active sexuality. Such a visceral connection with particular knowable spaces made these stars distinct from another important form of stardom in 1930s France, international stardom, which I shall now turn to consider.

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2

International stardom in 1930s France

International stars, particularly those from Hollywood, were extremely popular in France in the 1930s, appearing high in popularity charts and receiving as much exposure as the indigenous stars in the fan magazines of the period.1 The comparable emphasis on French and Hollywood stars reflects the similar popularity of each nation’s cinema in France during the decade. Colin Crisp explains that while Hollywood films were exhibited on more screens, French films attracted bigger audiences, meaning that the cinema of each nation enjoyed a similar degree of popularity.2 As would be expected, the prominence of international cinema had a large cultural and cinematic effect on French film of the 1930s, an issue that has been explored in a number of studies. Vincendeau3 and O’Brien4 have considered the cultural and stylistic impact of multiple-language films (films shot more or less simultaneously in more than one language), and more recently Phillips,5 and Bergfelder, Harris and Street6 have examined European émigré filmmakers and transnational film style. While Vincendeau and Phillips have advanced the investigation of transnational stardom through their consideration of European stars in Hollywood,7 little work has focused on Hollywood stars in Europe, on either their reception or the European careers of the few stars who crossed the Atlantic to make films.8 In this chapter I would like to consider the impact of international stardom in France in the 1930s, an important consideration for this book because, as we shall see, one of the distinguishing features of the cinematic stars compared to the more home-based theatrical stars is their hybridity, which involves the incorporation of many elements of international stardom. 46

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International femininity: The modern woman In exploring the cultural significance of international stardom in 1930s France, I would like to draw upon the notion of the modern woman, a new form of femininity that became influential all over the world from the years following the First World War to as late as the 1950s in some places. The global dimension of the modern woman has been examined by a group of scholars in ‘The Modern Girl Project’, exploring the simultaneous emergence of the modern woman in North and South America, Europe, Africa and Asia.9 Aided by new technologies, the modern woman was a mass-produced image of femininity, making her distinct from her predecessor, the ‘new woman’ of the late nineteenth century and early twentieth century. Mary Louise Roberts writes: ‘Unlike the new woman, who formed a relatively elite group sociologically, the modern woman was a mass phenomenon – the bourgeois girl next door.’10 Similarly, Barlow et al. write: ‘In contrast to the “New Woman” who, in many contexts, was her predecessor or contemporary, the Modern Girl was less often identified with directly advocating social and political reform than with ostentatiously refashioning her appearance and refining her body.’11 While new women were more actively feminist, participating in calls for women’s suffrage, the more subtle progressive discourses of the modern woman lay to a large degree in her appearance. The modern woman, who was usually depicted as young, tall, thin, with short hair and a ‘natural’, pale, white complexion, was glamorous through virtue of her personal grooming and consumer-led lifestyle. As Barlow et al. discuss, modern women featured in a huge amount of advertising for cosmetic and fashion products. Here consumption in itself had ‘political’ value, encouraging women to take control of the construction of their identities, with their consumer desire becoming an expression of individuality. While it has been argued that women also gained agency through the purchase of products in the nineteenth century,12 the modern woman represented a more democratic instance of such behaviour, enabling more women, on more modest budgets, to attain glamorousness. And while the Parisienne would often need to be subsidised by her wealthy father or husband, the modern 47

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woman would be free to make purchases more independently. In this context, women buying even the most ‘feminine’ dresses would gain a degree of empowerment through their role in constructing their own identity. Sometimes the ‘look’ of the modern woman would have further political significance as many modern women began to adopt a more masculine appearance, often having shorter hair and wearing traditionally male garments such as trousers. In contrast to traditional domestic femininity, the modern woman was also more mobile and very much at home in the movement of the city, making her emblematic of the kinetic modern world (see Figure 6 – a self-portrait by Tamara de Lempicka, an important example of the modern woman). In contrast to female drivers who used cars to carry out tasks for their families, the modern woman, as Adam C. Stanley notes, would use the car to attain a more independent lifestyle, accessing the public sphere.13 This was related to an increase in women entering traditionally male vocations, with many becoming, for example, lawyers and doctors. But the modern woman also sought greater equality in relationships and a higher degree of sexual freedom. To some extent this again relates back to her visual qualities. Many depictions of the modern woman drew upon exotic imagery as a way of suggesting her freedom and sensuality, something that is especially the case with representations influenced by the visual style of Art Deco, an art movement that emerged in the mid-1920s and that blended and abstracted a range of international influences, particularly those of the ‘East’. Such increased sexual agency was also related to improvements in contraception and the greater economic independence many women were experiencing at this time. As a result, the sexuality of the modern woman became one of her most contentious features. One French lawyer, incensed at the promiscuity of the modern woman, wrote: Can one define la jeune fille moderne? No, no more than the waist on the dresses she wears … These beings – without breasts, without hips, without ‘underwear,’ who smoke, work, argue, and fight exactly like boys, and who, during the night at the Bois de Boulogne, with their heads swimming under several 48

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cocktails, seek out savory and acrobatic pleasures on the plush seats of 5 horsepower Citroëns – these aren’t young girls! There aren’t any more young girls!14 As this quotation indicates, ideas surrounding the modern woman were also prominent in France where there were numerous

Figure 6 Autoportrait (Tamara in the Green Bugatti). © 2014 Tamara de Lempicka. Licensed by Museum Masters International 49

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famous examples of this type (often referred to as la garçonne), including Colette, Coco Chanel and Tamara de Lempicka. Victor Margueritte’s novel La Garçonne15 also provided another important instance of the modern woman in interwar French culture, telling the story of Monique L’Herbier, who on discovering the infidelities of her fiancé becomes a ‘bachelorette’, embarking upon a life of sexual promiscuity.16 As a consequence of public hostility to the novel’s moral outlook, Margueritte, once a prominent member of the establishment, was stripped of his Légion d’honneur. In a more socially acceptable guise, modern ideas were advanced in France, as elsewhere, through consumer culture. This is particularly evident in the many new women’s magazines, such as MarieClaire (launched on 5 March 1937), which promoted new ideas about personal grooming and lifestyle. Articles often gave beauty advice to women, such as one entitled ‘Toutes les lèvres peuvent faire une jolie bouche’ (‘All lips can make a pretty mouth’),17 which instructed readers in the best ways to apply lipstick. Career advice for women was also provided, as in ‘L’Orientation professionnelle’ (‘Professional orientation’), an article that contained an image of a professional woman wearing a long coat and holding a briefcase-style bag.18 However, at the same time, as Vincendeau discusses, in Marie-Claire there is a ‘tension between ideas of modernity and the conservative structures of Third Republic France’.19 Examples of articles advancing a more explicitly conservative ideology include one entitled ‘Aide ton mari, le ciel t’aidera’ (‘Help your husband, heaven will help you’) and another which has the following anti-modern passage: ‘The natural order demands that woman charms and lights up men’s lives. Divine law points out that one of woman’s missions on earth is to please her husband. Beauty is legitimate. Beauty is a duty.’20 Nevertheless, in a conservative society in which women were still not allowed to vote, Marie-Claire made an important contribution to the creation of a more modern outlook on femininity. While the gender identities of the theatrical stars discussed in the previous chapter were grounded in a specifically French context, the modern woman was a truly international phenomenon. The academics working on The Modern Girl Project begin

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their article by stating: ‘The Modern Girl emerged quite literally around the world in the first half of the twentieth century. In cities from Beijing to Bombay, Tokyo to Berlin, Johannesburg to New York, the Modern Girl made her sometimes flashy, always fashionable appearance.’21 Consequently, across the world indigenous femininities were placed in relation to an international form of femininity. American consumer culture played a significant role in the global spread of the modern woman, but so too did the cinema and, of particular importance to this book, film stardom. Because of this I would now like to consider how ideas relating to the modern woman were popularised by Hollywood stars in France in the 1930s.

Hollywood stardom and the modern woman in France While the majority of well-known international stars in France in the 1930s were from Hollywood, there were also examples of important stars from other national film industries. One of the most popular non-French stars was the British-born German star Lilian Harvey. According to Antje Ascheid, Harvey was voted the most popular non-French actress by readers of Pour Vous in 1932.22 This is particularly interesting as Harvey was a key example of the modern woman, a point argued by Ascheid in her essay, ‘Nazi Stardom and the “Modern Girl”: The Case of Lilian Harvey’. Harvey’s modernity stemmed from her ‘idiosyncratic mix of romantic heroine and tomboyish comedienne’, as well as from her highly kinetic dancing style.23 While modern women generally embodied a society’s new ideas, in Nazi Germany Harvey’s modernity was looking back to the Weimar period and across to Hollywood cinema. However, although Harvey clearly represented an important instance of an international modern woman in France in the 1930s, it was Hollywood who produced most of the period’s prominent international stars. Hollywood stars of the 1930s primarily embodied the modern through their glossy and glamorous appearance. Countless magazine features presented the French public with images of

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these stars, which showcased their impeccably made-up faces, flawlessly styled hair and, in many cases, their tall, slim bodies. As early as 1924 (and possibly earlier) film magazines were publishing the vital statistics of Hollywood stars.24 In the 1930s Pour Vous ran a yearly feature entitled ‘La Femme idéale’, which would report on what Hollywood considered to be the measurements of the ideal female body. On this topic the 1938 version states: ‘Every year, the canon of female beauty is modified according to fashion and tastes of the day. In 1938, it will be necessary to be tall, dark, with frail shoulders and an obvious chest.’25 It goes on to discuss the way the female physique has changed in the last decade: Every era, and even every year, brings a transformation in beauty. Let’s look back: we are already smiling when we think about the petite beauty of 1927 who revealed her curves under her dressing gown. Since 1930 the fashion is for more slender, athletic women. Yesterday the platinum blonde vamp had all the success. Will it be the same tomorrow? No. The vamp has gone out of fashion like straight, light-coloured hair. 1938 brings us a different kind of woman, healthier, more athletic, more natural.26 Results from 1935 indicate that a progressively taller and slimmer physique was being advocated (see Table 1).27 From this we can see how the body of the modern woman was being promoted in the 1930s through Hollywood cinema and its stars. Table 1

‘La Femme idéale’ statistics 1935 Ideal for 1934

Height (cm) Weight (kg) Chest (cm) Waist (cm) Wrist (cm) Hips (cm) Thighs (cm) Calves (cm)

153 48 85 60 15 85 47 32

Ideal for 1935 159 50 83.5 58.5 13.5 83.5 45 31.5

Danielle Darrieux 162 50 84 61 89 52 32

Joan Crawford 161 54 93 63 15 92

Jean Harlow 160 50 88.9 64 14 95

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In some ways the prescription of such specific measurements goes against the self-creation the modern woman was based upon; with such precise measurements most women would inevitably fall short of the ideal. Indeed, the harshness of Hollywood’s pursuit of its ideals is highlighted in another article entitled ‘Le Dur apprentissage des girls d’Hollywood’ (‘The tough apprenticeship of Hollywood girls’), which includes an image of a woman who presumably hopes to become a star, being measured against a wall that has arrows indicating where various parts of her body should be.28 At the same time, many of the articles indicate that not even the stars meet such ideals. For instance, Table 1 shows that the Hollywood stars Crawford and Harlow, as well as the French star Darrieux, depart from the ideal in a number of areas. Pour Vous would also have articles that explicitly instructed readers in how to make their bodies more like those of the stars. One of these, called ‘Beauté’, identified the stars who had the best example of a particular body part, such as the waist (Jean Parker), hips (Margaret Sullavan), chest (Jean Harlow) and profile (Joan Crawford).29 For each of these there is an explanation for why theirs is considered to be the best, as well as instructions for how readers can attain similar perfection: for example, in order to achieve the hips of Margaret Sullavan, particular exercises were advised. Many magazines discussed the fitness routines of stars or would show images of them engaging in various forms of physical exercise. This is the case in an article from Marie-Claire entitled ‘Secrets de stars: comment elles atteignent le poids idéal’ (‘Secrets of stars: how they reach the ideal weight’), which includes images of Robert Montgomery playing tennis, and Joan Crawford and Clark Gable swimming.30 But one of the main ways such magazines encouraged readers to attain the appearance of the film star was through the many fashion spreads that depicted stars modelling the latest clothes. Magazines would instruct readers not only in how they could be like stars but also in how they could become stars. While some articles stressed that stardom was difficult to attain, others suggested that anyone could become a star, bringing the French fan magazines into line with American myths about stardom. On these myths Daniel Boorstin writes: ‘The film-star legend of 53

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the accidentally discovered soda-fountain girl who was quickly elevated to stardom soon took its place alongside the log-cabinto-White-House legend as a leitmotif of American democratic folk-lore.’31 A French book of 1929 called Tu seras star! describes the feelings of a star-struck fan as being an illness called la Cinématomanie.32 In Pour Vous, articles would discuss the qualities required of aspiring film stars, singling out not only beauty but also determination. This is evident from the titles of two articles: ‘Il ne suffit pas d’être belle pour devenir “star” … Il faut également beaucoup de courage et d’obstination’ (‘It’s not enough to be beautiful in order to become a “star” … A lot of courage and determination is also necessary’)33 and ‘Comment devenir star: Chance? Persévérance?’ (‘How to become a star: Luck? Perseverance?’).34 At one point the latter of these explicitly highlights that stars were once like the readers themselves: ‘Stars began by being women, young girls like you, in their family, their office, their school, their work-place, their dance school.’35 Throughout Pour Vous, then, the modern lifestyles of Hollywood stars are exhibited and instructions are offered on how to imitate them. As a consequence, the magazines showed their readers not only how they could become a modern woman but how they could become the ultimate modern woman: a film star. Indeed, most female Hollywood stars were modern women, regardless of their film roles, owing to the transformative glamour treatment they received and the lifestyles they were shown to lead. Barlow et al. point out that many advertisements for cosmetics would draw upon the film star as an iconic instance of the modern woman: It appears that the Modern Girl image, in part, reflects observation and adaptation of female bodily practices performed on the silver screen. We know from previous research on moga in Japan, flappers in the United States, modeng xiaojie in China and neue Frauen in Germany that film watching was a leisure activity routinely associated with the Modern Girl. Contemporaries often viewed Modern Girl postures, hand gestures and ways of walking and talking as mimicking the movies. Beginning in the late 1920s, many ads for cosmetics feature a film star; in each 54

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of our locations well-known actresses were used to promote products.36 If the promise of the modern woman was that women could achieve upward mobility through the possession of glamour, Hollywood stars presented the most vivid and extreme representation of the realisation of this dream. At the same time, while most female Hollywood stars were modern to a significant degree, some were clearly more modern than others. A star like Janet Gaynor could be said to be modern due to her glamour and her embodiment of the democratic ‘success myth’, in part through virtue of being a star, but also through her dramatisation of this in A Star Is Born (William Wellman, 1937). Yet her modernity was offset by more traditional elements in her persona, such as her tendency to play characters who are happy to live within the confines of domestic femininity (such as in Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans (F.W. Murnau, 1927) in which she is defined in opposition to an amoral modern woman). In addition, different Hollywood stars provided different inflections of the modern woman, foregrounding some elements over others. In order to consider a specific case, I would now like to focus on a key example, Greta Garbo.

Greta Garbo and France Greta Garbo was the most popular female Hollywood star in France in the 1930s.37 In a poll from 1933 in Cinémonde, which asked readers to vote on who were the best actors and actresses in the world, Garbo is ranked as the highest actress and second overall, after Charlie Chaplin. In polls appearing in La Cinématographie Française, Garbo was the second most popular international female star in 1936 (after Shirley Temple), first in 1937 and first again in 1938. Such popularity is also indicated by Garbo’s significant exposure in the fan magazines of the period, with her appearing a number of times on the cover of Pour Vous. Another indication of her familiarity to French cinemagoers of the period is provided in Gribouille (Marc Allégret, 1937; I shall return to this 55

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film in Chapter 5), in which Mme Mortestan, who is on her way to the cinema, tells her husband (Raimu) that she is going out to see Garbo, as though she is just on her way to meet a friend. Greta Garbo is a famous instance of a Hollywood ‘star discovery’. She had ascended from being a working-class girl, working in a department store in Stockholm, to the uppermost heights of Hollywood stardom. She was discovered by Mauritz Stiller, a Russian émigré, who, after casting her in some Swedish films, such as Gösta Berlings saga (Mauritz Stiller, 1924), took her to Hollywood where he had been given a contract to work for MGM. Stiller’s career soon faltered, but Garbo was a huge success. This dramatic rise to stardom was discussed in France in fan magazines and women’s magazines. An article in Marie-Claire from 1937 stated: She would have become a gymnastics teacher or certificated masseuse, she would have married into the bourgeoisie, her destiny would have been ordinary and banal, if she hadn’t met a man called Stiller. He was in love with her and was bent on turning her from her destiny, to bring her to him. If he had been an explorer, perhaps he would have made her an intrepid Amazon, a gold seeker. But he was a cinema producer. He resolved to make her a star and, with patience, an extraordinary will, he succeeded; Greta Garbo had the most beautiful flame of passion that can animate a woman’s face.38 The article also discusses her beauty, an important ‘star quality’ that brought about her discovery and her subsequent rise to fame (Figure 7). She possessed a flawless classical appearance, with perfectly proportioned features set across a pale, smooth face. Her extreme beauty would prompt (much later) an article by Roland Barthes entitled ‘The Face of Garbo’ in which he described her features: ‘Amid all this snow at once fragile and compact, the eyes alone, black like strange soft flesh, but not in the least expressive, are two faintly tremulous wounds.’39 Back in the 1930s, the timeless quality of her face was already perceived, and commented upon in Cinémonde: ‘The years pass, the stars increase in number, but the face of Greta Garbo still dominates the cinema, an icy but incomparable beauty.’40 Of course, this beauty in part came from 56

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Figure 7

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Greta Garbo. BFI Stills, Posters and Designs

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the work MGM did on her appearance: in addition to the usual changes in hairstyle and the careful application of make-up, she had her teeth straightened, for example. Garbo’s was also a youthful beauty. She was in her early twenties when she appeared in Torrent (Monta Bell, 1926), her first Hollywood film, and was thirty-six when she made her last, Two-Faced Woman (George Cukor, 1941). Such youthfulness makes her by and large typical of Hollywood stardom, but quite different from many of the French theatrical stars. As we have seen, Arletty’s film career did not really take off until she appeared in Hôtel du Nord at the age of thirty-nine. Most importantly, Garbo was extremely photogenic and has long been recognised as one of Hollywood’s most glamorous stars. In an article on glamour Florence Jacobowitz and Richard Lippe limit their discussion to Garbo and Marlene Dietrich, whom they see as ‘definitive’ examples.41 In her films and in press materials, Garbo would be presented as ethereal and elevated, frequently shown in soft lighting, and striking enigmatic poses. Garbo’s performance style was also important to the nature of her Hollywood stardom. While her acting could have moments of ‘excessive’ melodrama, she was celebrated for her nuance and understatement. Discussing this, Szaloky writes: ‘Critics admire the “unusual restraint in her expressions”, her “introspection, patience, and reflectiveness”, all in all, her ability to wait and understate.’42 This is evident, for example, in the final scene of Queen Christina (Rouben Mamoulian, 1933). Dyer discusses the fact that Garbo’s acting instructions for the scene were that she should ‘do nothing’, stating that this is ‘in itself, one should say, a considerable feat of performance’.43 Leaning at the front of the boat, we see Queen Christina (Garbo) looking directly ahead. With her face completely stationary, the only movements come from her occasional blinking, the wind blowing in her hair, and the camera, which tracks into her face from a medium-wide shot to an extreme close-up. In contrast to the ‘large’ acting of the theatrical stars considered in the previous chapter, Garbo’s understated performance was engineered more for the demands of the medium of cinema. While Garbo was sometimes a seductive femme fatale, who brings about the doom of male characters, and would often play other58

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worldly, spiritual characters, which led to her becoming known as ‘the divine Garbo’, a key aspect of her identity, of particular importance to this chapter, is that she was a definitive example of the modern woman. As already discussed, she was exceptionally glamorous; she was also tall and thin, the physique this ‘type’ characteristically possessed. Central to her modern persona, as discussed by Lucy Fischer, was her association with Art Deco, a movement that developed globally following the Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes (International Exposition of Modern Industrial and Decorative Art) in Paris in 1925.44 This international style affected not only the ‘high culture’ of architecture, painting and sculpture but also more consumer-led, popular forms such as fashion and interior design, and the cinema. As Fischer discusses, Garbo possessed ‘stark Deco physiognomy’, and was frequently shown surrounded by Art Deco architecture and dressed in modern clothing.45 Indeed, in France her association with the latest fashions was legendary. In Pour Vous the famous designer Schiaparelli wrote: In effect it’s Garbo who, for the first time, in the film As You Desire Me, wears masculine pyjamas and, from that demonstration, pyjamas would become fashionable … a trend that hasn’t gone out since then. It’s also Garbo who creates the fashion for flowing hair, and who will then adopt the fashion for straight hair, whims that are followed by thousands of women who want to be up-to-date.46 Garbo’s stardom, then, offered much to French audiences in the 1930s. On the one hand, she represented an idealised form of femininity, which gave her the ‘stellar’ quality that many of the French theatrical stars lacked, or possessed to a much lesser degree. On the other hand, she embodied a significant example of the modern woman, in part because of her glamour and clothing, but also because of her more independent behaviour. The emphasis on Garbo’s ‘discovery’ in magazines of the period reveals that part of her appeal was that she represented the possibility for ordinary women to rise from humble origins and become great stars. As we shall see in the chapters that follow, such features of Garbo’s stardom would 59

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also be central to the appeal of the French cinematic stars under consideration in this book. French theatrical stardom and international stardom represented two extremes in 1930s French cinema. The theatrical stars embodied a ‘grounded’, national, and sometimes regional, form of stardom. By contrast, international stars like Garbo were more detached, elevated and ‘universal’. While the international stars are ‘newer’, and more ‘cinematic’ than ‘theatrical’, this does not mean they escape female stereotypes. Garbo is an evanescent eternal feminine; she is also a femme fatale. Nevertheless, international stars, such as Garbo, were ideal for personifying new ideas relating to the modern woman, presenting a more massproduced, international, democratic and image-based femininity. Because cinematic stardom was defined in relation to the theatrical stardom discussed in the last chapter and the international stardom explored in this chapter, the contrasts between them are extremely important. As we shall see, cinematic stars created a hybrid by assimilating some elements of these stardoms and rejecting others. Such a negotiation would be central to their significance and would be fundamental to their importance in the 1930s, before, during and after the Popular Front. In order to consider the first key instance of this, I will now turn to Annabella.

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3

From midinette to Hollywood star: Annabella

Annabella was the most popular French female film star of the early 1930s, making her an important starting point for this investigation of French cinematic stardom. Her significant appeal is hinted at in a number of popularity tables, such as Cinémonde’s ‘best in the world’ poll in 1933 in which she was the top French female star.1 She was also consistently written about in the period’s fan magazines and took starring roles in films throughout the decade. However, despite her importance during the 1930s, she has been neglected in both popular and academic histories of French cinema.2 In Stars and Stardom in French Cinema, Vincendeau discusses this, pointing out that Annabella’s appearance in Hôtel du Nord is nowadays overshadowed by Arletty’s: ‘While attention today is focused on Arletty, the project in 1938 was built around Annabella, who in contrast to Arletty, is treated by the camera as a “star”.’3 Indeed, Annabella is absent from many references to the film. Outside the actual Hôtel du Nord in Paris, next to the Canal Saint-Martin, a plaque explains the building’s history; after devoting most space to discussing the original novel by Eugène Dabit the following is stated about the film: Marcel Carné succeeded in filming a tumultuous and curious film from the book. Released in 1938, it is today better known than the book, due to the work of the director, the dialogue by Henri Jeanson, the sets by Trauner, and the performances of the actors, Louis Jouvet and Arletty.4 Yet there is no mention of the film’s ‘real’ stars: Jean-Pierre Aumont and Annabella. Why is this the case? How is it that a star who defined French female stardom in the early 1930s is now 61

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largely forgotten? An important factor is the relative shortness of Annabella’s career. Danielle Darrieux and Michèle Morgan have remained prominent in the public consciousness, because, in addition to their huge popularity in the 1930s, these stars were also successful in the postwar French cinema. By contrast, Annabella’s final film, Quema el suelo (Luis Marquina), was released in 1952, after which she entered into a lengthy retirement and gradual withdrawal from the public eye. Moreover, she ceased making movies in France after her appearance in Hôtel du Nord with the exception of a few final films – Éternel conflit (Georges Lampin, 1948), L’Homme qui revient de loin (Jean Castanier, 1949) and Dernier amour (Jean Stelli, 1949). Although she was briefly brought back to the public’s attention in the late 1970s when Kevin Brownlow engineered the re-release of Abel Gance’s Napoléon vu par Abel Gance (1927), Annabella faded into obscurity. Consequently, her stardom existed as a short but intense phenomenon. While stars whose careers have been defined by their longevity make fascinating subjects for study, so too do those who, like Annabella, experienced a short but powerful period of fame: because Annabella’s stardom was largely confined to France in the 1930s (particularly the early 1930s), it reveals much about that time and place.

Annabella, French impressionist cinema and the concept of photogénie As a cinematic star, Annabella did not, of course, begin her career in the theatre, but instead entered directly into the film industry. Although she appeared in some plays in the 1940s,5 her 1930s career revolved almost entirely around the cinema. (One exception to this is that she had a short run on the stage as Rosalind in Shakespeare’s As You Like it.) Because of this Annabella’s identity was inextricably bound with the cinema, a point that was used to advertise her in a press book for Dinner at the Ritz (Harold D. Schuster, 1937): She is purely a product of the screen, and, at variance with all precedent, she doesn’t want to go on the stage. ‘Once, after I 62

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had made a few pictures,’ she relates, ‘I thought it would be wise for me to go on the stage for the experience. For five days, a week maybe, it was very exciting. Then it was the same thing over and over. In pictures, there’s always something new. A new day means new work. That’s what I like.’6 In this section I would like to explore the origins of this emphasis on the ‘cinematic’ through a consideration of Annabella’s discovery and debut in Napoléon. In doing so, I will explore how this period was critical in defining key aspects of her cinematic stardom. Annabella’s discovery and the early years of her career were crucial in generating her strong association with the medium of cinema. The basic story of how she was discovered is as follows. Suzanne Charpentier (Annabella’s real name) had been passionately interested in the cinema since she was a child, buying many fan magazines and even, according to her biography, using the garden shed as a pretend studio. One day her father was dining with some friends who worked in the film industry and by just showing them a photo of Annabella, he was able to get her a role in Abel Gance’s Napoléon. Her involvement in this film was crucial to the creation of her stardom, for a number of reasons. One immediately important point is that Gance renamed her, which, according to Annabella, happened in the following way: I’d just read a poem by Poe called ‘Annabel Lee’ and I started calling myself that. When I met M. Gance, he told me my name would be only one word, Annabella. So Annabel Lee became Annabella in films – that was Gance’s idea.7 But her discovery was important for other reasons too. In particular, the nature of her future stardom was hinted at by the way her father’s dinner guests first noticed her: because Annabella was discovered through a photo, her importance as image is immediately clear. For her father’s friends and for the audiences who would soon worship her, Annabella was considered to be extremely photogenic. This became even more apparent after she had her screen test for Napoléon. Although she was initially cast in a very minor part, as one of Napoléon’s sisters, the quality of her appearance on film led her 63

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to be given a better role. Instead, she played Violine Fleuri, a principal role in the six-hour version of the film (in the three-hour version, her importance is diminished, with her being removed almost entirely). So, Gance must have spotted certain qualities in her filmed image. To explore what these were we must first consider Gance’s ideas about cinema more closely, especially in relation to the French impressionist theory of photogénie. French impressionism and medium specificity Abel Gance is celebrated as being one of France’s greatest film artists. Although Napoléon is considered to be his masterpiece, he was also well known for having made other key films of the silent era: La Dixième symphonie (1918), J’accuse! (1919) and La Roue (1923). However, his centrality to histories of the period comes not only from these films but also from his theoretical writing, which was published in a number of journals at this time. Through both his films and his theory he contributed to French impressionist cinema, an avant-garde film movement to which Marcel L’Herbier, Louis Delluc, Jean Epstein and Germaine Dulac also belonged. Through their canonical films and significant body of theory, this group pursued the modernist goal of explaining the ‘essence’ of their art form, an objective that made them antagonistic towards films that borrowed from the other arts (especially theatre and literature). In this way, their project was similar to that of other film movements of the time, such as the Soviet cinema of the 1920s. Here filmmaker-critics like Eisenstein saw cinema’s essence as lying in its capacity to create montage. For the French impressionists, however, cinema’s essence lay elsewhere; for them what was important was the mysterious effect that occurs when the camera is turned on the world, a process they called photogénie. On this Robert B. Ray has written: ‘Moreover, for reasons that the French could not define, the camera rendered some otherwise ordinary objects, landscapes, and even people luminous and spellbinding.’8 Central to this idea was the automatism of the movie camera, which had the power to transform what was filmed, but also to reveal aspects of reality that had hitherto gone unnoticed. This placed the impressionist notion of cinematic 64

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specificity at odds with Soviet montage, which privileged the process of joining strips of film: ‘The concept of photogénie […] emphasised precisely what Eisenstein wished to escape: the cinema’s automatism.’9 The French impressionists, then, advocated (and made) films that placed importance on image rather than narrative (or montage sequence). Consequently, a major concern of the impressionists was a film’s mise-en-scène. In one of the most famous articles on the nature of photogénie, called ‘On Decor’, Louis Aragon wrote: ‘To endow with a poetic value that which does not yet possess it, to wilfully restrict the field of vision so as to intensify expression: these are two properties that help make cinematic décor the adequate expression of modern beauty.’10 In essays like this, the celebration of the expressive possibilities of mise-en-scène was usually related to a celebration of the artistic control of the director. However, writing from the period also reveals that the French impressionist emphasis on the medium specificity of cinema – in particular the centrality of image – extended to its attitude towards the performer. For example, as Richard Abel has noted, this is something that was discussed by Emile Vuillermoz: ‘The camera, for instance, turned certain actors into “astral bodies” whose essence was delivered up to the spectator in a direct, intimate, and profound encounter – “as absolute gift.”’11 When we consider the writings of the French impressionists within the broader film culture of the time, the connections between photogénie and notions of stardom become even more apparent. One of the main magazines these theorists contributed to, Cinéa (which later became Cinéa-Ciné Pour Tous),12 combined its heady essays with material more typically found in conventional fan magazines, such as features on film stars. Not only was each week’s cover dominated by the image of a different performer, but an advertisement for the magazine’s previous ‘special issues’ reveals that the majority of these were devoted to film stars: Nazimova, Charlie Chaplin and Douglas Fairbanks.13 In this magazine there was a great emphasis on physical appearance. This is evident from its ‘Grand Concours de Photogénie’ (‘Great Photogénie Competition’), which aimed to find the magazine’s most photogenic readers. It is also evident from many of 65

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the articles, including one written by Pierre Henry, the journal’s editor, called ‘Beautés photogéniques’ (‘Photogenic beauties’), which was published in two parts.14 Appearing alongside more abstract discussions of photogénie – ‘L’Idée de photogénie’ (‘The concept of photogénie’) by Pierre Porte15 and ‘De quelques conditions de la photogénie’ (‘On some conditions for photogénie’) by Jean Epstein16 – Henry’s articles discuss the human form and film stardom by considering the face and the body. In doing so, he discusses the issue of casting: ‘The question of the recruitment of new faces for the screen was posed. How was it resolved? And how have we continued to resolve it during the following years?’17 In exploring these questions he points out that some stars have been taken from the theatre and other arts (such as dance), before writing: ‘Finally there are some stars who come from no other art, from no other profession and who have come directly, their studies completed, to the screen.’18 In doing so Henry highlights the existence of a form of cinematic stardom that favours photogenic appearance above previous acting experience. Indeed, it was this type of actor that the French impressionists themselves sought for their films, claiming that such performers would help cinema to challenge other art forms, particularly the theatre, and attain its medium specificity. More recently, the connections between photogénie and stardom have been explored by Robert B. Ray, who highlights not only that the mysterious poetry of the cinematic medium was noticed by ‘art’ filmmakers such as the impressionists but that commercial filmmakers have also attempted to make their products more appealing through the creation of photogenic images; film studios in Hollywood have placed great emphasis on the photogenic, and – here Ray introduces an important term – the glamorous. Indeed, the Hollywood film industry was able to create ‘factories’ that would consistently produce such glamour (this was especially the case with MGM, which was considered to be the most glamorous of the major studios): Having perfected its continuity system by the mid-1920s, the Hollywood studios turned to the great remaining problem. MGM’s constant screen tests; its commitment to having 66

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the best cameramen, costume designers, and lighting technicians; its regular resort to previews – these practices indicated Thalberg’s obsessive quest for the photogenic actor, location or moment. MGM’s preeminence during this period suggests that Thalberg achieved, however intuitively, what the Impressionist theoreticians did not: a formula for photogénie.19 This is crucial as it helps us to understand more fully the importance of stars in relation to the concept of photogénie, emphasising as it does a connection between impressionist theoretical constructs and Hollywood notions of glamour. In turn, it highlights, for several reasons, the fact that impressionist films were ideal for the creation of stars (especially the way that stardom was conceived of in Hollywood). First, by focusing more on the image than the narrative, impressionist films created many moments of spectacle that could showcase the glamour of its actors, highlighting (possibly inadvertently) their status as extra-filmic phenomena. Second, the impressionist belief that the image had a revelatory power is particularly important here as it suggests that, at such moments of spectacle, something of the actual actor, or star, is revealed to us. This fits in with contemporary theory on the subject of stardom, as exemplified in Stars by Dyer, who highlights the way that films often seem to reveal to us something of the star’s identity.20 These connections prove illuminating in a consideration of Annabella’s rise to stardom, which began with her appearance in a French impressionist film. Not only did these ideas have a major impact on why Annabella was chosen to appear in Napoléon in the first place but they were also important in constructing the nature of her stardom, which developed in the following years. By considering Napoléon we can see that Annabella was already becoming a particular type of star; what was important was her image, her photogénie. Napoléon vu par Abel Gance The influence of French impressionist thought is apparent throughout Gance’s Napoléon. For example, the film uses a 67

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number of devices to capture the subjectivity of its characters, such as handheld shots to suggest disorientation and superimpositions for memories and reveries (a favourite technique of the impressionists). In keeping with photogénie there is great emphasis on the imagistic properties of the film, which is evident, most famously, in the final scenes when three screens are used simultaneously, creating vast panoramas. It is also present in the film’s emphasis on the visual qualities of its performers. For example, Albert Dieudonné, who plays Napoléon, is a striking visual presence. He is often filmed in silhouette, partly to capture Napoléon’s famous profile, and partly to emphasise features that suggest aspects of the character’s personality. His nose connects him visually with the eagle he kept as a pet when he was a child, implying that he possesses some of the qualities that eagles represent: intelligence and, as birds of prey, a certain ruthlessness. More to that, Dieudonné has cold, steely eyes and a thin mouth, which help to convey some of Napoléon’s coldness as a person who was singleminded in his pursuit of personal and national glory. But this is offset by the sense of sadness that is also captured by his pale eyes, which helps to suggest his tragic dimension, an aspect of the character discussed by Gance: ‘I conceived Napoleon as a man who is being dragged towards war by a strong web of circumstances and who is trying all the time and in vain to escape.’21 The influence of photogénie is also evident in the film’s treatment of Annabella, who plays Violine, a fictional young woman who idolises Napoléon – to such an extent, in fact, that she finally becomes unhinged, building a shrine in honour of him. In keeping with photogénie, Annabella’s importance does not come solely from her creation of a character in a fictional world, but also from her status as autonomous spectacle, as an object of glamour. That she was important to the film’s spectacle rather than its narrative is indicated by the fact that, when the film was cut from six hours to three, almost all her scenes were removed. Such a drastic reduction in the film’s length meant that all elements that were not essential to the story had to be removed, indicating that Annabella’s role was largely one of ‘dispensable’ spectacle.

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Her importance as spectacle is also evident from a consideration of her performance in the film. By not coming from the theatre, her low-key acting is entirely in keeping with that advocated by the French impressionists in their theoretical writing, ensuring that more emphasis is placed upon her appearance and how this is transformed by the cinematic apparatus. This is evident in a short but illuminating scene, which begins with the intertitles: ‘He came every day to the hotel Chantereine [...]. And the little white shadow of Violine came too.’ This is followed by an image of Violine, who does indeed resemble a ‘little white shadow’. Initially indistinguishable, she slowly moves into view under an arch. Although her humility is partly formed by her position within a wide shot, which serves to dwarf her in the frame, it is also created by her self-effacing, nuanced acting and her pale white skin (which is enhanced further by her white costume). This is emphasised in the next shot of her, a close-up in which she remains completely motionless for a few seconds, with her low-key acting and young face conveying further her fragility and sadness (because Napoléon is courting Josephine and not her). This is underscored at the end of the shot by her tilting her head back in a gesture of woe. But the image also glamorises Annabella the performer. In the first few seconds of the shot, her stasis allows us to focus on her beauty, a quality that would be absolutely central to her career as a cinematic star: she possesses perfect features, consisting of a straight nose, large almond-shaped eyes, plump lips, smooth skin and golden hair. Ethereal soft lighting heightens such perfection further. Moreover, the edges of the frame are blurred, drawing our attention more completely to her face, as well as adding to the ‘dreaminess’ of the shot’s presentation of her. Consequently, Annabella’s photogénie makes an important contribution to the visual discourses of impressionism. In doing so, in her portrayal of Violine, Annabella shares a number of similarities with the Hollywood performer Lilian Gish. In discussing the cinematic precursors of French impressionism, Dudley Andrew outlines the influence of D.W. Griffith and, in particular, his film Broken Blossoms (1919), which was seen to possess the cinematic specificity and photogénie that was central to French impressionism.

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He points out that the film’s star, Lillian Gish, plays a key role in this, with her reduced performance style being ideal for her portrayal of the delicate Lucy Burrows: The quietness required of a relatively passive hero or heroine calls for an acting style of reduced gestures and subtle facial expression. Broken Blossoms exemplifies this unmistakably, coming as it does just after the era of theatrical histrionics that the early cinema had borrowed from the Victorian stage.22 Although Violine is initially happy and content, she becomes progressively miserable because of her unrequited love, and by the end of the film her melancholia is as intense as Lucy’s in Broken Blossoms. Also, in both films the delicate nature of the female character emphasises the strength of the men – Lucy’s aggressive father, Battling Burrows (Donald Crisp) and Napoléon. This quality is conveyed by Annabella and Gish in part through their diminutive physical appearances. In addition, both performers adopt at certain points a similar pose, suggesting their vulnerability, which consists of holding their hands up in front of their chests, tilting their heads to one side and staring with a downcast gaze. While the type of woman portrayed by Gish and Annabella in these examples draws upon theatrical melodrama, the films nevertheless emphasise stasis and image through the use of closeups that focus on their photogenic features and similarly gentle performance styles. The similarities between these performers are not a coincidence. Annabella has commented: As a child, I was fascinated by the movies. Maybe I was ten years old when I saw Lillian Gish in D.W. Griffith’s Broken Blossoms and I thought she was wonderful. Coming back home from the movie, I remember getting up on a chair looking at myself in the mirror above the fireplace trying with my fingers to make my mouth smile as she did when she was very sad.23 So which features of Annabella’s cinematic stardom were revealed by her discovery and her appearance in her first film? Most importantly, Annabella’s status as image was crucial and as 70

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we shall see this is something that would continue to be important in her career as the 1930s developed. Similarly, her nuanced acting allowed more attention to be focused on her appearance, giving the impression that her films reveal (through the camera’s automatism) aspects of her identity as a star, rather than just the characters she plays. Also, photogénie’s emphasis on the camera’s capacity to transform the ordinary, everyday world into the fantastic is important in relation to Annabella’s stardom. As Dyer points out, a fundamental feature of stardom is the presence of this dichotomy: ordinary/extraordinary.24 Moreover, in this section I have introduced two of the main notions of stardom/performance that Annabella (and the other cinematic stars that I consider in the following chapters) would be defined in relation to: first, I have highlighted that by entering the cinema directly she was distinct from the theatrical performers who had been trained in the conservatories. Second, through my discussion of her glamorousness, I have begun to suggest the importance of Hollywood as a reference point for understanding Annabella’s new form of stardom. These features would be developed further in the following years. But while Napoléon played an important role in forming key elements of Annabella’s stardom, the main features of her persona emerged in the 1930s.

Annabella as a midinette Central to Annabella’s identity, as it would develop in the early 1930s, was her embodiment of the midinette, an old-fashioned form of French femininity that continued to be popular into the decade. Initially referring to women who worked until midday (hence the prefix ‘midi’), the midinette was essentially a workingclass girl with a traditionally female and non-industrial job, such as a shop assistant or flower seller. When depicted in culture she was often represented with extreme romanticism. Tino Rossi’s song Midinette de Paris is illustrative: Midinette of Paris When you sing everyone smiles 71

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In your eyes full of sky It’s eternal April Beautiful rose of springtime Love is on the look-out for 20 year olds The whole world repeats This lovely refrain Midinette of Paris […] And leafing through the pages of your novel You dream of Prince Charming And your heart beats tenderly For a jeune premier of the screen.25 The continuing popularity of the romanticised midinette is indicated by the appearance in the late 1920s of a women’s magazine called Midinette. One of the most striking things about this magazine is its romanticism, with its celebration of ‘true love’ permeating most of its pages. This was present in poems, quotations and a weekly story, which almost always focused on love, such as, for example, one that was entitled, ‘Plus fort que la haine’ (‘Stronger than hate’).26 One way in which this emphasis on romance was frequently expressed was through sheet music, which would appear each week on pages 16 and 17 surrounded by drawings that would also possess romantic connotations; around the lyrics for ‘Cri d’amour’ (‘Cry of love’) there are drawings of the countryside and cherubs flying with garlands of flowers.27 The socially modest origins of the midinette meant she was a female type that audiences were easily able to identify with; the many letters published in Midinette would begin ‘chères midinettes’ (‘dear midinettes’). In the context of this popular notion of femininity, we can comprehend more fully the appeal of Annabella’s persona, built as it was on similar notions, particularly, its combination of the humble and the romantic. As a cinematic star, Annabella was ideal for embodying the midinette’s humility. The nature of her discovery and direct entry into the cinema stressed that she was essentially an ordinary French woman, just like any other. In an account of her life story in Pour Vous in 1933 she wrote: ‘This is the life of a little girl from 72

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La Varenne, who has become happy and who has had the chance to realise her life’s dream.’28 This humble quality was enhanced in her films in which she frequently took traditional female working-class (though non-industrial) jobs. This was explicitly the case in Quatorze juillet, a film I shall discuss in detail shortly, in which she is a flower seller. It was also the case in Paris-Méditerranée (Joe May, 1931), in which she is a shop girl – the quintessential midinette vocation. The modesty of such an occupation is captured in a review for the film, which refers to her character Jacqueline as a ‘charming little shop girl’.29 Although she is not strictly speaking a midinette in Gardez le sourire (Paul Fejos and René Sti, 1933) and Marie, légende hongroise (Paul Fejos, 1932), where the characters she plays are not French, she still embodies a similar type of romanticised working-class woman. The midinette’s humbleness also connotes a delicate, unassuming femininity. This was perpetuated by the magazine Midinette, which was dominated by drawings of things that midinettes were supposed to like (and be like), such as flowers and butterflies. Annabella possessed similar qualities – as we have seen, her ‘delicate’ beauty and performance style were central to her portrayal of Violine in Napoléon. In Chapter 1 I highlighted how the theatrical stars would often use their gestural, ‘excessive’ acting to portray extremely physical, confident and energetic characters. By contrast, Annabella’s more low-key acting was central to her humble self-effacement; her gestures are nuanced and she moves gracefully with light and delicate steps. A particularly clear example of this occurs towards the beginning of Paris-Méditerranée. At the end of a conversation with her boss in his office, Annabella (as Solange Pascaud) leaves the room as though she is a dancer, lightly stepping through the doorway and closing the door in a fluid movement. Moreover, Annabella’s humility is expressed through her ideolect. I have discussed her adoption in Napoléon of a pose in which she plays with her hands in front of her and tilts her head to one side, with a shy, downcast gaze; this pose would reappear in a number of her films of the 1930s (Figure 8). As a midinette, Annabella is not just an ‘ordinary’ woman; she is also romanticised to a significant degree. In large part this is conveyed by her characters’ active pursuit of romance, something 73

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Figure 8

René Lefèvre and Annabella in Le Million

that is central, as we shall see, to her films with René Clair: Le Million and Quatorze juillet. She is also idealised through her youthful beauty, an essential feature of the midinette, as indicated by the lyrics of Rossi’s Midinette de Paris. As we have seen, owing to her photogenic features, discovered by Gance, beauty was a crucial part of Annabella’s stardom and one that continued to be central to her appeal throughout the 1930s. Her appearance was frequently commented upon in fan magazine articles, with comments such as: ‘she is pretty, natural’30 and, in relation to Le Million, ‘Annabella […] is the smile and the grace of the film’.31 Indeed, she ranked highest of all French female stars in Ciné-miroir’s ‘nicest smile’ poll of 1935 (coming second only to Hollywood’s Jeanette McDonald).32 Obviously Annabella’s looks were youthful because she was very young when she started making films. (She was only seventeen when Napoléon was released.) Because most of the other female stars of early 1930s French cinema had started their careers in the theatre, by the time they had become accomplished actors 74

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and entered film, they were often more mature. As we saw in the last chapter, this was the case with Gaby Morlay, Elvire Popesco and Arletty. But Annabella’s youthfulness was also created by her youthful physiognomy and physique: her large eyes, small mouth, short hair and petite frame. Annabella was also, importantly, romanticised through a celebration of her innocence. Aside from Marie, légende hongroise, in which Annabella’s character has a child out of wedlock, her characters would normally maintain their chastity. In Le Million and Quatorze juillet, her purity is contrasted with the ‘looser’ sexuality of these films’ foreign vamps: Vanda Gréville (in Le Million) and Pola Illéry (in Quatorze juillet). But one of the main ways Annabella’s sexual purity was conveyed was through her whiteness – her Aryan features of pale skin and blond hair. As Richard Dyer argues, a connection between whiteness and purity is common in the Western world: ‘In the quest for purity, whites win either way: either they are a distinct, pure race, superior to all others, or else they are the purest expression of the human race itself.’33 This idea is illustrated by an advert that appeared in Midinette for a beauty product called Malacéïne, in which an image of a completely white-faced woman is accompanied by the caption: ‘Is the purity of your colour threatened? Only one remedy: Malacéïne cream.’34 Annabella’s midinette persona thus represented an idealised French femininity of a specific ideological kind: pure, white and virginal. Interestingly, in many ways her private life conflicted with this vision. Mirroring the events of Marie, légende hongroise, Annabella had a child out of wedlock. In At the Centre of the Frame Annabella states: ‘You know, I’ve been asked five times in my life to get married but the first one to whom I said no was the father of my daughter. I was married twice after, first to Jean Murat and then to Tyrone Power.’35 One source claims that the father of Annabella’s child was Albert Préjean with whom she had had a relationship in the early 1930s.36 However, this is not confirmed in the biography of Annabella in At the Centre of the Frame nor in Albert Préjean’s autobiography.37 Tellingly, in Annabella’s publicity at this time, this aspect of her life is not discussed. Although for seven consecutive weeks in 1933, her life story was published in Pour Vous, her daughter is not mentioned, despite it describing many 75

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other – far more trivial – aspects of her private life.38 Her daughter is also notably absent from an article in Pour Vous about film stars’ children called ‘Leurs enfants’.39 While the feature discusses Henri Garat and his son Georges, and Pierre Blanchar and his daughters Pierrette and Dominique, Annabella and her daughter are not mentioned. There may be a number of reasons for this (maybe Annabella was not available for interview), but her daughter’s absence is still intriguing; Annabella was one of France’s biggest female stars. It is most likely that her child is not present in her publicity because such information would potentially have damaged the innocence that was the basis of her persona. This highlights a general truth about star personas: aspects of the star’s off-screen life are foregrounded selectively. Consequently, such an omission from Annabella’s persona allows us to get to the heart of her persona’s significance. Whereas for Blanchar and Garat it was irrelevant whether or not they were fathers, Annabella’s persona as a romanticised midinette relied upon her remaining virginal. This emphasis on the midinette’s humility, delicacy, romance, beauty and innocence highlights the conservatism of this femininity, which encouraged women to believe in their subservience and not to challenge the authority of men. Indeed, Annabella’s midinette represented an extremely unthreatening figure for patriarchy: whereas the modern woman’s youthfulness signified a break with the past, a fresh way of doing things, the vulnerability of the young midinette performed a different, more conservative, task, emphasising the strength of the older male generation. Annabella’s midinette was an ideal daughter in the decade’s quasiincestuous narratives: she appeared alongside the significantly older Albert Préjean in Un soir de rafle (Carmine Gallone, 1931) and Un fils d’Amérique (Carmine Gallone, 1932), and Jean Murat in Paris-Méditerranée and Mademoiselle Josette, ma femme (André Berthomieu, 1933). Her relevance to such ideas is emphasised further by the fact that in the early 1930s she had an off-screen relationship with both of these co-stars, first with Préjean and then with Murat, whom she married. By supporting such an old-fashioned femininity, with its roots in the period before the First World War, Annabella embodied nostalgia for an older France, a common theme in film and 76

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culture at this time. A number of social and political events had served to strengthen backward-looking ideas in France: the Great War had dealt a significant blow to the nation’s population and its self-esteem; but also the economic depression, which France succumbed to later than other nations, had a profound, stagnating effect. On this period in French history Romy Golan writes: ‘The interwar years were, for France as for most other western nations, a period of increasing political, economic, and cultural retrenchment.’40 However, such ‘retrenchment’ was in opposition to a competing ideology, modernity, which was manifest in new capitalist production methods, but also in the cultural sphere in the form of modern art, architecture and design. Modernity was also expressed, as we have seen, through the modern woman, another form of femininity that Annabella paradoxically embodied. Because she entered the cinema directly, and was associated almost entirely with the medium, her persona possessed a number of distinctly modern elements. For one thing, she embodied the modern woman’s upward mobility and democracy, having risen from being an ordinary, albeit well-off, French girl to become a hugely successful star. In this way, she had similarities with many Hollywood stars, such as Greta Garbo, who, as we have seen, went from humble shop girl to ‘film goddess’. To some extent, Annabella also possessed the increased agency of the modern woman – as we shall see in my discussion of her appearances in René Clair’s films, her characters were capable of outbursts of feisty, and at times almost aggressive, behaviour. More generally, Annabella’s expression of the modern comes from her appearance. Although she isn’t as tall as the quintessential modern woman, she is youthful and slim and has short hair. The importance of this latter point should not be underestimated, as Mary Louise Roberts highlights: The fashion among young women for short, bobbed hair could inspire enormous tensions within the French family. Throughout the decade, newspapers recorded lurid tales, including one husband in the provinces who sequestered his wife for bobbing her hair and a father who reportedly killed his daughter for the same reason. A father in Dijon sought legal 77

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action against a hairdresser in 1925 for cutting the hair of his daughter without his authority.41 While Annabella did not take the further step of wearing men’s clothing (at least not until her role in Wings of the Morning in 1937 (Harold D. Schuster)) she was depicted in fan magazines as being at the forefront of fashion. On a number of occasions she discussed her own beauty regime, such as in one article in which she advocated a subtle use of make-up as well as a modern lifestyle consisting of lots of exercise: ‘Physical culture is indispensable to health as much as to beauty, and for us artists, it is indispensable to our profession.’42 But most importantly, as I have discussed in relation to her work in Napoléon, Annabella was extremely glamorous. In films and her frequent fan magazine appearances she would always appear glossy and flawless. This key ‘star quality’ was a fundamental aspect of her persona throughout the 1930s and it was also a way in which she embodied emancipating ideas. Jacobowitz and Lippe discuss this dimension of glamour: Glamour was important to many of the women’s films, to the viewing audience and for a complex of reasons. Glamour perfectly addressed the characteristics for which these stars were greatly admired: it speaks of confidence, empowerment, and, depending on its use, articulates all that is not domestic, confined, suppressed.43 While these features did not necessarily make her as empowered as many of the more active and independent modern women of the time, it certainly ensured her possession of a modern aesthetic. It is unsurprising that Annabella’s modernity is largely related to her appearance; as we have seen, Annabella was a star who was defined to a remarkable degree by image. By being an old-fashioned midinette at the same time as embodying modern ideas, Annabella’s persona contained internal tensions. So how did she reconcile these conflicting features? I would now like to consider her work with René Clair in order to examine how these elements functioned in two of her most important films of the 1930s: Le Million and Quatorze juillet. These 78

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films were crucial to Annabella’s stardom. Like Gance, Clair was an aesthetic innovator, devoted to the perpetuation of the cinematic, and, as we shall see, this had an important effect on the nature of Annabella’s cinematic stardom.

The René Clair films René Clair was initially in mourning at the passing of the silent cinema, which he considered to be a superior art form to the new sound film, owing to its capacity to communicate almost entirely through images. Because Clair’s formative years as a filmmaker were in the 1920s, with him making such avant-garde films as Entr’acte (1924) and Paris qui dort (1924), he in many ways continued the French tradition established by the impressionists. In fact, in Ray’s discussion of photogénie, he cites Clair: ‘There is no detail of reality which is not immediately extended here [the cinema] into the domain of the wondrous.’44 Once he had come to terms with the loss of the silent cinema, Clair formulated ideas about how sound movies could maintain their medium specificity, thus avoiding the ‘dangers’ of theatricality. These views, which were argued in French journals, formed one half of a debate that raged for the first few years of the 1930s. The other side, as discussed in the Introduction, was represented by Marcel Pagnol and Sacha Guitry. Because Clair’s ideas will have informed why he worked with Annabella and how he used her, these debates are important in helping us to understand the operation of her persona and the development of her stardom, which blossomed with her appearances in Le Million and Quatorze juillet. As would be expected, the theoretical opposition between Clair and Pagnol was replicated through stylistic differences between their films. As we saw in my discussion of Orane Demazis, in terms of camera angles and shot-length, Pagnol’s films were clearly influenced by their theatrical origin; they use wider, ensemble shots, which remain static for prolonged periods before cutting. In contrast, Clair uses shorter takes and closer shots, focusing more on the imagistic properties of the medium. Unsurprisingly, these different approaches impacted upon the nature of the acting in 79

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each director’s films. As Vincendeau argues, Pagnol’s Marseille trilogy, like many French films of the 1930s, draws upon various forms of theatrical performance.45 Indeed, we have already seen how Demazis used her theatrical acting in these films, which functioned in unison with Pagnol’s filmed theatre aesthetic. At the same time, as Vincendeau highlights, it would be reductive to claim that in these films the acting only draws upon the theatrical. The performance style of Raimu is also at times very cinematic, demonstrating a more subtle and nuanced form of acting. Whereas his theatrical acting is used to embellish the films’ comical moments, his low-key performance contributes to the more emotional scenes. However, in these films Raimu is an exception and on the whole Pagnol’s theatrical sensibility is central, informing the camerawork, editing, and, especially, the dialogue and the acting. Clair’s films are in many ways the opposite; they are resolutely cinematic. Again, this is not entirely clear-cut, as some of his actors are salient examples of the decade’s theatrical stardom. Albert Préjean, who stars in Sous les toits de Paris (René Clair, 1930), had a long career in the Parisian theatre before moving into the cinema at the coming of sound. However, such casting did not produce ‘theatrical’ films. Indeed, Préjean was cast for his singing talents, which contributed to Clair’s innovative, operatic use of the soundtrack. In addition, by breaking his scenes down into a number of shots and angles (often with a mobile frame), Clair’s style was antithetical to Pagnol’s. This further reduced the theatricality of his performers in a couple of ways. First, it meant his films relied less on the interaction between performers appearing in the same frame as each other. Second, editing disrupted the continuity of an actor’s performance, which became fragmented through montage. The first scene of Sous les toits de Paris is illustrative, with it depicting a theatrical spectacle (Préjean singing to people in the street) through a variety of shots, angles and camera movements, including an impressive set piece in which the camera swoops down from the roofs of Paris before settling on Albert (Préjean) as he sings to a group of onlookers. At the same time, Clair’s films also featured a number of actors who did not come from the theatre, such as Pola Illéry and, of course, Annabella, 80

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From midinette to Hollywood star: Annabella

whose performances in Le Million and Quatorze juillet I shall discuss further below. Another important difference between the two filmmakers, which impacts upon notions of performance, comes from their conflicting approaches to dialogue. This is in terms of both what is said (the dialogue) and how it is said (accent/performance). This issue has been discussed by Christopher Faulkner in his essay ‘René Clair, Marcel Pagnol and the Social Dimension of Speech’.46 In this he argues that Pagnol’s films performed an important social function through their celebration of the diversity and specificity of regional accents and dialect. This viewpoint is backed up by Jacques Siclier in a discussion of Pagnol: He realised very quickly that by filming his plays with the transposition that was necessary for the spectacle of cinema, he would reach a much wider audience, that in terms of culture, he would bring the working classes much closer to his theatre. That was the starting point. In one fell swoop, working-class audiences discovered not theatre – though they were adapted plays – but something in which the characters spoke a language that was close to theirs, had feelings close to theirs and moral and lifestyle problems close to theirs. That was certainly a revolution. But at the time it wasn’t analysed like that.47 To some extent the same could also be said of Clair’s films of the 1930s, which certainly seem to express an interest in ‘ordinary’ people: they are all set in working-class locales (streets, courtyards, bars and restaurants), focus on the petit peuple of Paris (street singers, artists, thieves, flower sellers) and on characters who usually speak with Parisian accents. However, as Kristine Butler highlights, such characters function more as abstractions and poetic interpretations of types rather than as real people, meaning that his filmmaking is not as socially engaged as it may seem: It is a way to avoid the banalities of realism, the brutal and industrial gaze of the camera, to portray the French people ‘poetically’ in a sort of ideal unison without listening to the actual differences in tone and accent – or by extension, without 81

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hearing the strife of class conflict or the low roar of social unrest.48 So, although accents are important in Clair’s films, they are being used to create a seemingly ‘timeless’ vision of Frenchness. According to Faulkner, this abstraction creates a conservative form of cinema, which is blind to social realities and class struggle. In addition, Faulkner’s analysis illuminates some important differences between the performances in the films of Clair and Pagnol. In contrast to the socially grounded acting in Pagnol’s movies, Clair’s performers adopt a more abstracted position. As we saw in Chapter 1, Orane Demazis is a ‘grounded’ presence in the Pagnol films. In part this is due to her association with Marseille, which stems from her narrative function in the Marseille trilogy. In Marius, Marius is torn between staying at home and marrying Fanny, or becoming a sailor to explore the world. Because of this, she is inextricably linked with ordinary life in Marseille’s old harbour, with the everyday. She, like the other theatrical stars, was also grounded through the nature of her theatrical acting, which stressed her physicality, due to her ‘large’ use of her body, gestures and expressions. By lacking the glamorous appearance of many film stars, her ‘ordinariness’ was further emphasised. Through their invocation of the concept of photogénie, Barrot and Chirat’s discussion of the rather extreme and misogynistic views that some people had on this subject immediately places her in contrast with Annabella: Her photogénie is already doubted. One female spectator gets straight to the point in relation to Angèle: ‘Orane Demazis is sober, moving, very much in the skin of her role, but how ugly she is! One does not shoot her in close-up because she is really too unsightly.’ And Serge Veber wrote at the release of Regain: ‘There are some very beautiful images, but Orane Demazis is less easy to photograph than Provence.’49 By starring in two of Clair’s five 1930s French films (Le Million and Quatorze juillet), Annabella was at this time one of his main performers. (The other three films were Sous les toits de Paris, À 82

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From midinette to Hollywood star: Annabella

nous la liberté and Le Dernier milliardaire (1934)).50 As Annabella indicates, Clair must have been familiar with some of her work: ‘I don’t remember how René Clair decided to get me. He wanted me. He must have seen something because he wanted me for that part.’51 Possibly he liked her performance in Napoléon – as an avid filmgoer this was a film he had almost certainly seen.52 It is interesting that Clair had ‘headhunted’ Annabella, as it means he had identified a particular quality or set of qualities that appealed to his filmmaking sensibility. So, what was it about Annabella that appealed to Clair? As we shall see, in contrast to the socially grounded Orane Demazis, Annabella’s new form of stardom was perfect for Clair’s project of presenting an ‘abstracted’ view of the world. In a number of ways it enabled her to lend an element of the fantastic to her somewhat mundane characters. The narratives of both Annabella’s Clair films are relatively straightforward: Le Million is a farcical comedy about the search for a missing lottery ticket and Quatorze juillet is a comical love story, much of which takes place on Bastille Day, as the film’s title – the fourteenth of July – suggests. To some extent, her characters in these films (Béatrice in Le Million and Anna in Quatorze juillet) display hints of the modernity I have been discussing. For example, both characters have moments of assertive behaviour: in Quatorze juillet when a wealthy drunk man tries to grab and kiss Anna, she slaps him in the face causing her to be removed from the restaurant in which she is selling flowers; numerous incidents of stubbornness occur in Le Million as Béatrice challenges and confronts her unfaithful fiancé, Michel (René Lefèvre). Indeed, in these films Annabella is certainly more assertive and mobile than the submissive and constrained Demazis in the Marseille trilogy. In the early scenes of Quatorze juillet we see Anna freely moving around the neighbourhood as she plays with the local children, and in Le Million Béatrice’s work as a ballet dancer involves a degree of independence and control of her life. At the same time, there are elements that explicitly position Annabella’s characters as antithetical to the modern. Whereas the modern woman would frequently be shown at the wheel of a car, in Quatorze juillet the only people to drive vehicles are male taxi drivers. By contrast, Anna is always on foot and at the end of the film even pulls an 83

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old-fashioned cart filled with flowers. Annabella is also placed in opposition to Vanda (Vanda Gréville) in Le Million and Pola (Pola Illéry) in Quatorze juillet, characters who possess the agency and sexual liberation of the modern woman and whom the films depict negatively as a consequence. However, one of the main ways that Annabella brings modernity to the films is through her glamour. As we shall see, this plays a key role in contributing, paradoxically, to the films’ celebration, idealisation, and ultimate affirmation of her characters’ nostalgic femininity. Both Béatrice in Le Million and Anna in Quatorze juillet are typical Parisian midinettes. Although Beatrice is a ballet dancer at the Opera in Le Million, which presumably would be difficult work to attain, a cut from an image of her in medium shot during one of her rehearsals to a wide shot of the whole group of dancers highlights her humble status, showing she is just one among many. Moreover, in Quatorze juillet, Anna’s ordinariness is expressed through her numerous working-class jobs. Initially she is a flower seller, but when her mother dies she takes work in a café where she has to labour until the early hours of the morning. Their humility is stressed further in each film through their juxtaposition with more wealthy characters and areas of Paris, such as the Opera House and its clientele in Le Million, and the luxurious restaurant in Quatorze juillet where Anna initially sells flowers. Placed outside this higher social sphere, Béatrice and Anna live in the working-class quartiers. The buildings designed by Lazare Meerson (the celebrated set designer for both films) are old and tatty, celebrating a premodern Paris of cobbled streets, old winding staircases and rickety rooftops. Béatrice and Anna are also established as midinettes through their possession of a delicate and self-effacing femininity. Both characters are meek and vulnerable, placing them in contrast to the more extravagant, more modern, women who function as their love rivals in each film. In Le Million Béatrice contrasts with Vanda, a licentious character, as highlighted by Vanda Gréville: ‘I was called by René Clair, who needed, for Le Million, a “vamp”, coquettish and perverse, and who had thought of me.’53 In contrast to the humility and innocence of Béatrice, Vanda is rich, sexually liberated and scheming, differences that are hinted at through a 84

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From midinette to Hollywood star: Annabella

comparison of each character’s bedroom. Béatrice’s is small, girly, with flowery wallpaper, ballet outfits hanging on the wall and a small bed, big enough for just one person. Vanda’s conversely is ridiculously overstated: the room is huge, with a statue, an exotic rug and a large double bed surrounded by silky drapes hanging from the ceiling. Similarly, in Quatorze juillet, Annabella is again the antithesis of her love rival, Pola, who, like Vanda, is a highly sexual character; her dark hair and sultry appearance make her antithetical to the blond, white and ‘pure’ Anna. These qualities are made clear from Pola’s introduction in the film. When Jean (George Rigaud) enters his bedroom, after spending a romantic evening with Anna, he finds Pola lying on his bed, where she is introduced in a slow pan that works its way along her legs before revealing the seductive expression on her face. Her sexuality is encoded as transgressive and dangerous through her association with the criminal world with which she soon leads Jean to become involved. Because both Annabella’s rivals are played by foreigners (Gréville was Norwegian and Illéry was Romanian), Annabella’s status as representing the ordinary French woman is underlined. Indeed, her Frenchness is further emphasised by the fact that not only was she the star of a film about the fourteenth of July, but she herself was actually born on that date, something that was discussed in fan magazine articles.54 However, while Béatrice and Anna are humble characters, through the casting of Annabella and the stylistic strategies of Clair, they are not so ordinary after all. Instead, they become ‘abstracted’ from everyday life, with Annabella presenting idealised versions of working-class women. This in part comes about because of Clair’s use of ‘Parisian mythology’. While her job as a florist in Quatorze juillet highlights her ordinariness by indicating her working-class status, in an artisanal, non-industrial occupation, such work also connoted higher values, as explained by Colin Crisp, discussing the florist and the laundress in 1930s French cinema: ‘The connotations of nature, innocence, growth, and blossoming associated with these activities combined to endow women with a quasi-religious status.’55 The flower seller appeared in a number of other films, such as Le Jour se lève, as well as in other areas of popular culture. In the 30 March 1934 issue of Midinette, 85

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there was a double-page spread of sheet music for a song called ‘Fleurettes’, written about a flower seller (Figure 9).56 The lyrics and the drawings around them evoke the main elements of this myth: the working-class identity of the young flower seller is emphasised by her juxtaposition with a wealthy-looking couple; her idealisation is clear through her youth and attractiveness and the feature’s emphasis on the romance and beauty of flowers. The sentimentality of this occupation is also emphasised in Quatorze juillet through the character of Anna, who is herself a hopeless romantic; throughout the film her sole concern is to find happiness through love. Consequently, such work, through its association with timeless values, differs from Fanny’s job in Marius, selling seafood in the old port. The beauty and perfume of flowers add to Anna’s delicate femininity, contrasting with the smelliness of the seafood. And whereas the flower seller represents the ‘universal’ idea of romance, Fanny’s work is grounded more exclusively in everyday life in Marseille.

Figure 9

‘Fleurettes’ sheet music, taken from Midinette

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From midinette to Hollywood star: Annabella

In each film the stylistic strategies of René Clair also play a fundamental role in transforming Béatrice’s and Anna’s ordinariness into extraordinariness, generating abstractions of the midinette. This is especially evident in a scene in Le Million in which Michel and Béatrice, who have been arguing with each other, find themselves on stage at the opera just as the curtain is going up. As the singers perform, Béatrice and Michel sit waiting, hiding behind the scenery. Initially Béatrice ignores Michel, but in a bid to win her back, he starts to mime to the music, indicating its applicability to her, until eventually her anger subsides and she begins to smile. As the scene develops other elements of the opera are used to embellish the romantic situation between the couple: Clair shows parts of the scenery, such as a statue of a cherub, clouds passing in front of the moon and, finally, leaves falling from the artificial tree on to Michel and Béatrice as they hold each other in a sincere romantic embrace. Indeed, whereas the romantic connection between the opera singers is shown to be false when they break into an argument as soon as the curtain is down, Clair shows that the timeless romance of the music and the setting are entirely appropriate for a depiction of Béatrice and Michel’s genuine love for each other. One of the main ways that Annabella contributes to Clair’s abstracted style is through the nature of her cinematic acting. First, her ‘neutral’ accent is evident in both films, particularly in comparison with some of the films’ more distinctly Parisian voices. Similarly, whereas Demazis’s acting aligns her with the regionalism of the decade’s theatrical output, Annabella’s does not. As we have seen, by going directly into the cinema she shares the low-key acting favoured in Hollywood at this time, which, instead of signifying regionalism, suggests universalism. For example, after she has kissed Jean in Quatorze juillet she goes to her bedroom and stares out of the window daydreaming blissfully. She leans her head to one side, looking off-camera into the distance, sighing, creating an idealised image of romantic contentment, which is enhanced by the soft light and the gentle camera movement as it slowly approaches her face. Although such features of Annabella’s performance are repeated, creating idiosyncrasies – the recurring features of her ideolect – these are used 87

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to convey abstract notions, such as her romanticism. The idiosyncrasies of Demazis are inversely more realistically inclined, in order to add to her regionalism. But on the whole, Annabella’s cinematic acting style encourages attention to be focused upon her photogenic appearance. Indeed, one of the main ways that Annabella’s characters are endowed with extraordinariness, and through which they are abstracted from their surroundings, is through her photogenic looks. Part of this stems from the geometry of Annabella’s appearance, which was highlighted by Alexandre Arnoux who, in a review for Quatorze juillet, wrote that she has a ‘triangular face’.57 In addition, in both films, despite being a supposedly poor, working-class character, she is beautiful and glamorous throughout, with a perfectly made-up face and impeccably tidy hair. Also, in each film she wears a number of costumes, which are always neat and pretty, with such delicate accessories as bows, ribbons and frills. The capacity for Annabella’s photogénie to endow the working-class Anna with glamour is evident in the first scene of Quatorze juillet. The film opens with a mobile frame that passes impoverished-looking people putting up decorations in their rooms in old and run-down Parisian buildings before finally finding an empty window where Anna walks into shot. Engaged in the mundane activity of cleaning her teeth, she has evidently just got out of bed, a time when people tend not to look their best. However, as she steps into the soft morning light, the brightness that seems to come from her white dress and her pale skin reveals her to be an ethereal presence in humble surroundings. Annabella’s abstraction was extremely important to her films with Clair and to her persona as a whole. Her abstract quality plays an important role in Clair’s creation of idealised workingclass, artisanal communities. In these films she brings romance, innocence and youth to ordinary working-class quartiers. As a cinematic star, she was also ideal for contributing to Clair’s project of creating ‘cinematic’ films, particularly because of her non-theatrical acting and her photogénie. Moreover, the films show us how the contradictory elements of her persona – her simultaneous embodiment of a midinette and a modern woman – coexisted in two of her most important films of the early 1930s. As we have 88

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From midinette to Hollywood star: Annabella

seen, despite some moments of independence and empowerment, her modernity in these films came mostly from her glamour. However, because this glamour is channelled into the idealisation of a traditional form of femininity, it is essentially being put to the service of tradition. By adopting some elements of the ‘look’ of modernity, while maintaining a reactionary form of femininity, Annabella’s persona implies that while the modern world has brought about surface changes, the essence of women (and other aspects of French life for that matter) has not changed; women are still passive, innocent and dream only of romance.

Popular Front films: La Bandera and Anne-Marie While Annabella’s glamorous embodiment of the midinette made her the top French female star of the early 1930s, from the middle of the decade onwards her popularity began to decline. This is evident from polls that indicate that around this time she began to be overtaken by other stars.58 In 1936 she was the tenth most popular star overall, coming behind two female stars – Darrieux (in ninth place) and Morlay (in seventh place). In 1937 she rose a little to seventh position, but was now a long way behind Darrieux who had reached second place. Her popularity dropped significantly in 1938 when she was well behind the other top female stars, not even appearing in the top ten. Ahead of her were Corinne Luchaire (eleventh), Morgan (tenth), Printemps (eighth), Darrieux (fourth) and Romance (second). The decrease in her popularity is hinted at in fan letters in Pour Vous, such as one called ‘Défense d’Annabella’ (‘Defence of Annabella’),59 which was written in response to some criticism that Annabella had been receiving. We can see, then, that the height of her stardom occurred in the early 1930s. Annabella’s changing fortunes were related to the changes that occurred in French society at this time. Discussing these, Jackson writes: At the beginning of 1931 France started to be affected by the Depression. The economic crisis had the effect both of reinforcing resistance to change in French society – setting in 89

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motion a reflex defence of the social status quo – and acting as a catalyst on the forces of change. The result was an institutional crisis – a crisis of the regime – which exploded in the riots of 6 February.60 This situation would culminate with the election of the Popular Front government, which united workers and the lowermiddle classes against a rise in fascism, and, as I discuss in the Introduction, introduced important social reforms, such as the forty-hour working week and paid vacations. While the Popular Front hoped to give more power to ordinary workers, it was less concerned, however, with the emancipation of women and colonial subjects. And yet, although the Popular Front government’s agenda did not include an explicit aim to improve conditions for women, women still benefited from the movement’s wide-ranging cultural effect. Most prominently, Blum appointed three female undersecretaries to work in his government (Cécile Brunschvicg, Irène Joliot-Curie and Suzanne Lacorre). These appointments symbolised the Popular Front’s modernising project and its desire for national unity that would include women as well as men. There has been criticism that the role of these undersecretaries was mostly a symbolic one, a hypothesis that is supported by Blum’s letter to Suzanne Lacore, which included the following passage: ‘I will not bow to your refusal … You will not have to run anything [diriger], simply to encourage [animer]. Above all, your role is to be there, for your mere presence will signify a great deal’ (italics in original).61 This is indicative of some of the contradictory attitudes of the Popular Front, which sought to include women, while essentially denying them equality. Nevertheless, the Popular Front represented great opportunities for women to break free from traditional constraints. For instance, women were also involved in many of the strikes during 1936, in a variety of capacities. Siân Reynolds highlights that in some cases their contribution would be based upon traditional gender expectations, with them ‘doing “womanly” things, like bringing a basket of food to the factory gate to husband or son, or knitting to while away the time while someone plays an accordion’.62 While Reynolds’s argument is attentive to such inequalities during this period, she also 90

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From midinette to Hollywood star: Annabella

highlights many of the more emancipating aspects of the strike movement for female workers, making such suggestions as: it is tempting to conclude that precisely because they were less used to thinking in collective terms, women’s experience of the strikes overall was more intense than that of men: the dramatic events of June 1936 were a greater irruption into their lives.63 The potential of the strikes to provide new and emancipating experiences for women, and the capacity for these to create antagonism with men, is indicated in an anecdote discussed by Reynolds: The words of one striker’s husband on the other hand remind us […] that something else was going on besides such excitements. He and his wife were both on strike, ‘but not to the same degree. “She, well she’s gone mad. She stayed eight days and nights at the factory, without setting foot in the house. I had to wash the kids, comb their hair and wipe their bottoms for a week.”’ His wife reportedly said: ‘I’m staying, out of solidarity.’ The end of the story was that he went to the factory with a gun to fetch her home, eight days’ child-care being more than flesh and blood could stand (and clearly a new experience).64 The destabilisation of gender roles indicated by this story was part of a more general disruption of gender and power at this time. The rise of the Popular Front represented a significant challenge to the older male authority that had dominated French politics. Indeed, ‘youth’ was one of the main ideas associated with the movement, as highlighted by Jean-Paul Le Chanois who wrote: ‘In 1936 … we were 20 years old. But everyone was 20 years old in 1936.’65 As Burch and Sellier discuss, around the time of the Popular Front, the authority of the French ‘father’ was thrown into question: Meanwhile, however, strikes of an unprecedented magnitude followed the 1936 electoral victory of the Popular Front, traumatizing patriarchy’s ‘societal shadow,’ the capitalist bosses. And these strikes follow upon the street-fighting of 1934, which 91

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appeared at the time as the definitive defeat of the Cagoule, the Mauraussians, and other right-wingers filled with ‘nostalgia for the father.’66 In other words, the riots, the strikes and the rise of the Popular Front were not just the manifestations of class conflict; this was a period in which traditional notions of gender were challenged. In order to consider Annabella’s significance at this time I would like to discuss her roles in two films from the period – La Bandera (Julien Duvivier, 1935) and Anne-Marie (Raymond Bernard, 1936). Although La Bandera was released before the Popular Front came to power, and before the huge strike-wave of 1936, it was made as the movement was developing and gaining a significant following. It was based on the novel of the same name by Pierre Mac Orlan, and tells the story of Pierre Gilieth (Jean Gabin) who flees from France after murdering a woman in Montmartre. He joins the Spanish Foreign Legion and is sent to fight in Morocco, where he meets and marries a Berber dancer/courtesan named Aïcha (Annabella) (Figure 10). In his time in the Legion he

Figure 10

Annabella in La Bandera

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From midinette to Hollywood star: Annabella

becomes suspicious of Lucas (Robert Le Vigan) and with reason: he is a bounty hunter who has joined up in order to pursue Gilieth and claim a reward. The film ends with Gilieth dying in battle, but posthumously being celebrated as a hero. La Bandera is full of machismo and ‘tough’ masculinity: we witness the soldiers’ hard manual labour, their violent brawls with each other and their bravery. One scene depicts them as they work on building a road while unseen snipers shoot at them. Also, the final scene, set in a bunker, is another excuse to celebrate their manliness. When Captain Weiler (Pierre Renoir) asks for volunteers for the dangerous mission, which he says they would be unlikely to return from, they all, without hesitation, put themselves forward. This hyper-masculine narrative was typical of Duvivier’s penchant for ‘men’s stories’, and as Vincendeau discusses responded to a call for a more ‘virile cinema’: The anchorage of La Bandera in a genre for and about men is aptly illustrated by the fact that the Mac Orlan text mentioned above is set, in the same issue of Pour vous, opposite an article by right-wing journalist Jean Fayard entitled, ‘We want a virile cinema’; this piece deplores the ‘excessive delicacy and refinement’ of the French cultural climate of the time, and especially the ‘[film] melodramas based on excessive sensibility’. La Bandera clearly answered Fayard’s wish since shortly after, on 26 September 1935, he wrote in Candide, ‘La Bandera is a long shot from the ordinary tearful melodrama. Here are men, Legionnaires, who lead a harsh life under a harsh climate.’67 Vincendeau also highlights the connection between the film’s virility and the street violence that was prominent in France at this time owing to the period’s political instabilities: ‘In 1935, the frequent representation, in different media, of events such as street riots and other violent conflicts, constructed a constellation of values about the army, soldiers and virility, often anchored in the exotic sites of the French colonies.’68 While the bonds between men are considered in La Bandera to be of paramount importance, women and the colonial subjects are depicted as being of far less significance. In fact, at the end of 93

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the film, Gilieth’s heroics against a ‘native revolt’ are presented as completely redeeming him for his brutal murder of a woman in the film’s opening scene. These attitudes are expressed with particular clarity through the film’s treatment of Aïcha, who is doubly ‘other’ as a woman and a Berber, and is the victim of much bad treatment throughout the film. As a dancer and courtesan she is objectified and exploited, and a male fantasy of passivity and submissiveness. This is developed in her relationship with Gilieth, whose liaison with her has parallels with the Foreign Legion’s attitude to Africa; she is something to take possession of, but, potentially, something to fear. When Gilieth volunteers to go on the dangerous mission towards the end of the film, he appears to express little concern for what will happen to Aïcha, choosing (white) brotherhood and masculinity over his Berber wife. Consequently, despite the fact that the visibility and mobility of French women were increasing at this time, La Bandera places women in an extremely subservient position. Indeed, because the film is so extreme in its desire to maintain clear gender distinctions, based on male agency and female passivity, it can be seen as a reaction against the early signs of, and future possibility of, female emancipation. It is an assertion that the French nation should be based upon values of masculinity and virility, a union of white French men, not women. According to John W. Martin, Duvivier wanted the role of Aïcha to be taken by Tela Tchai, a Berber actor, but the film’s producers insisted on Annabella being cast because of her popularity at this time.69 But while Annabella could bring her popularity to the film, Aïcha was a character who was dramatically different to her usual roles. This did not go unnoticed at the time: An unknown Annabella, savage and sensual, fierce and wily, ardent and proud, little creature of blood and love, who will only make the number of admirers of the other well-behaved and tender Annabella increase, the one who lives, I believe, in Paris.70 As we have seen, Annabella rose to fame through her depictions of idealised French femininity. This makes her casting as Aïcha 94

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highly significant, influencing the film’s discourses on Frenchness and male unity at the time of the Popular Front. Because the Popular Front was having an impact on notions of gender by bringing about a degree of female emancipation, it would seem to be a period in which the modern, liberated aspects of Annabella’s persona would be given greater exploration. We shall see that to some extent this is the case in Anne-Marie. However, in La Bandera we get the reverse. Her modern elements are negated through her portrayal of Aïcha, a character who is essentially presented as ‘primitive’, as antithetical to notions of modernity. It is unclear whether Aïcha was modified to make her more like Annabella’s usual roles, but the rapidity with which she was cast and filmed suggests there would have been little time to make significant changes.71 Nevertheless, coincidence or not, aspects of Annabella’s persona are evoked, but given a twist. For example, as the above discussion indicates, while Aïcha is, like many of Annabella’s characters, extremely passive, this is something that is intensified in La Bandera through her enslavement and exploitation. As with some of her earlier films there are some moments of empowerment, but these are expressed differently. In Le Million and Quatorze juillet she shows a degree of strength when she challenges men in each film. However, this really only involves harsh words and sulking. In La Bandera Aïcha’s agency is expressed in a more animalistic and savage way. This is particularly clear in one scene in which she spits in the face of Lucas and bares her teeth. Also, as in Le Million, she is a dancer, though instead of performing ballet, which conveys Beatrice’s innocence, Aïcha’s dancing is designed to be erotic and seductive. The treatment of Annabella, as a star, also contributes to the film’s negative treatment of Aïcha. The film turned out to be Gabin’s ‘big break’, but she was, at this time, La Bandera’s biggest star, something that is evident from the film’s poster, which gives her top billing (Figure 11). Despite this, she is dramatically side lined, mirroring, and enhancing, the belittlement of Aïcha. She appears forty minutes into the film, is given little screen time, and is, as Vincendeau points out, just ‘part of the decor’.72 Also, because she was cast at the last minute, she was involved 95

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Figure 11 La Bandera poster

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only in interior shooting. So while Gabin moves freely around the Moroccan countryside, Annabella is confined to studio sets. Moreover, the film seems to be a complete rejection of everything her persona stands for. As we have seen, from her appearance in Napoléon onwards she embodied a delicate vision of French femininity, precisely the quality that La Bandera opposed, as the quotation on page 93 indicates. Also, as a courtesan she is the opposite of her usual chaste, innocent persona. Interestingly, these issues, relating to the film’s treatment of women and non-whites, were discussed in an article in Pour Vous entitled ‘Les femmes et La Bandera’ (‘Women and La Bandera’). The following comments, taken from the article, highlight that during this period people considered the film to be covering contentious terrain: ‘La Bandera is one of those distinctly virile films. Women appear there in the background, only for the pleasure of the soldiers. They are not there as mistresses, but slaves, as feminists would say.’73 The article also discusses a conversation overheard by the journalist between a woman and her husband. In response to the woman’s statement that Legionnaires shouldn’t get married to women like Aïcha, her husband said: ‘Oh right! [...] then you believe that a Moroccan dancer has no heart? That she cannot suffer like you, for example?’74 It is likely that even if Tela Tchai had taken the role, as originally intended, many viewers, like this man, would have noted the film’s negative treatment of Aïcha. However, because it is also Annabella – the most popular female star of the early 1930s – who is being treated badly, the film’s misogyny is made more visible. While her inherent passivity to some extent facilitates her portrayal of Aïcha, ultimately her casting is jarring, making the film’s insulting treatment of women and non-whites more obvious. We can see then not only that La Bandera advances a vision of a Popular Front made up of white French men but also that, in part owing to the casting of Annabella, it exposes, albeit inadvertently, the unfairness of such exclusivity. Such conflicts are symptomatic of the disruption to traditional notions of gender that the emergence of the Popular Front was bringing about. In Anne-Marie, which was released in 1936 when the Popular Front government was in power, Annabella’s role is quite 97

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different; she plays a character who has the traditionally male vocation of the aviator. The idea of aviation was extremely popular in France in the 1920s and 1930s, with countless novels, newspaper articles and films focusing on this heroic and adventurous figure. There were many celebrity aviators such as Antoine de Saint Exupéry, who not only embarked upon dangerous aeronautical journeys, but who also created many of the period’s most celebrated fictional accounts of such adventures.75 The love affair between aviation and cinema is discussed by Colin Crisp, who draws attention to numerous instances of aviation and aviators in the films of the period, highlighting, in particular, one of the most famous examples of this – the aviator, André Jurieux (Roland Toutain), in Jean Renoir’s La Règle du jeu (1939). But aviation was also celebrated in the institution of cinema through the large number of film star pilots; Albert Préjean, Josephine Baker, Marie Bell, and Gaby Morlay, for example, were all known aviators. In fact, such was the popularity of aviation among stars and other film personnel that the Cinema Aero-Club was founded by Georges Péclet.76 Aviation was also important in relation to the progressive discourses associated with the Popular Front, whose scheme l’aviation populaire encouraged even France’s least wealthy citizens to become aviators. There were also a number of high-profile modern women in the world of aviation, as discussed by Reynolds: ‘Only since the war had respectable young women been able to travel about unchaperoned, yet in no time, it seemed, the new woman, or “garçonne” was not only driving a car but flying an aircraft.’77 Celebrated female aviators were discussed in newspapers and magazines, such as Marie-Claire, which, for example, included a piece on Amelia Earhart, the first woman to fly across the Atlantic Ocean.78 It is within this context that Anne-Marie must be understood. The story, which was written by Antoine de Saint Exupéry, focuses on the title character (Annabella), an engineer working in a plane manufacturing company who becomes a test pilot. To some extent Annabella was an ideal choice for the role, because of her glamour. As Reynolds points out, this was central to the identity of the female aviator at this time: 98

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Most women pilots remained loners, then, strange glamorous figures whose relationship with the rest of the world was conducted through the media […] women aviators were under considerable media pressure to look good. There are a surprising number of references to appearance in the anecdotal and biographical accounts. Adrienne Bolland wore smart silk pyjamas under her flying suit for the Andes flight in anticipation of the reception and once admitted she crash-landed ‘because my mascara got in my eyes.’79 The female interest in the glamour of aviation is apparent in an issue of Marie-Claire in an article entitled ‘Modes dans le ciel’ (‘Fashion in the sky’).80 It is also evident in Anne-Marie. Annabella’s clothing for the film was discussed in Pour Vous: ‘Annabella, in her trailer, puts on her aviator’s costume. For the occasion she wears some boots which had been modelled on those of the unfortunate Hélène Boucher.’81 For her first flight Annabella wears a light aviation outfit, placing her in contrast with the dark leather clothing of the male aviators and the dull metallic aircraft. She finds a rose in the cockpit, which has been left for her by L’Inventeur, as he is called (played by Pierre Richard-Willm). As she holds it, getting into the aircraft, she smiles widely, providing a glamorous depiction of the female aviator. In many ways the film captures the modern sensibilities of the time, something that is evident throughout the film in its use of Art Deco architecture. We see strong examples of this in L’Inventeur’s apartment, in the plane factory where they all work and in a cocktail bar that the group visit for a drink near the beginning of the film. But more importantly, Anne-Marie is in many ways a modern woman, owing to her possession of a traditionally male job and some traditionally male qualities, such as bravery. Even after Le Penseur (Jean Murat) dies in a flying accident, Anne-Marie is not deterred and continues to fly. Yet even before she becomes a pilot, she is shown to be a modern woman, thanks to her job as an engineer. By possessing this technical knowledge, Annabella’s aviator is especially progressive, as it was uncommon for women to have such engineering skills.82 But the modernity of Anne-Marie is most evident through her relationship with the aviation team. Reynolds explains that 99

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it was difficult for women to gain access to the male-dominated aviation groups: ‘Formal banning [of women pilots] was only part of the obstacle. Almost as potent was the masculine team ethos, partly inherited from the war, which prevailed in organized air transport.’83 In contrast with this situation, and in contrast with her role in La Bandera, in which she is very much outside the male group, Annabella in Anne-Marie is integrated to a large degree with her team of fellow aviators. As with the group of soldiers in La Bandera, great emphasis is placed upon the closeness of this team. For example, they are known to each other by nicknames (Le Penseur, Le Paysan, Le Détective, L’Amoureux and Le Boxeur). Moreover, the range of class identities evident within the group also highlights the extent to which the film was in keeping with the collective spirit of the Popular Front. And yet, unlike her role in La Bandera, Annabella manages to become part of the group, with them referring to her on a few occasions as their ‘comrade’. At the same time, her membership within this group is also somewhat fragile. Although they clearly respect her flying abilities (this is indicated when they give her a dangerous mission at the end of the film), their behaviour towards her is more often quite patronising; for much of the film they seem more interested in her beauty than in her skills as a pilot. Indeed, in many ways the film undercuts the progressive potential of Annabella’s portrayal of an aviator by emphasising the ‘weak’ femininity that characterised her midinette persona. This is particularly evident in the film’s final sequence. Owing to technical problems, which have affected her plane’s radio, she is not able to find the runway to land her plane. As she tries to deal with the situation, she becomes progressively more panicked, appearing to be on the point of fainting. This draws upon familiar aspects of her performance style; her acting in this scene is similar to her melancholic swooning in Napoléon or Quatorze juillet. In order to save her, her friends on the ground carry out the extravagant plan of hijacking the nearby power station and using all the lights in the town to create Morse code to guide her home. This sequence of events, then, quite quickly and emphatically converts her from being the pioneering female aviator to the more reactionary figure of the ‘damsel in distress’. 100

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From midinette to Hollywood star: Annabella

What is evident from a reflection on Annabella’s performances in these two films, one made during the rise of the Popular Front, the other while it was in power, is that her persona embodied tensions between the period’s highly conflicting ideological standpoints. On the one hand, in La Bandera she portrays with relative ease a character encoded as doubly ‘other’ and doubly passive due to her status as both a woman and a non-white. On the other hand, it seems Aïcha was too passive, even for an Annabella character, which prompted discussion of the film’s gender politics.84 In addition, Anne-Marie is to some extent built upon the potentially progressive premise of a female aviator. However, this exists in tension with Annabella’s somewhat passive persona, which embellishes the character’s vulnerable position in a man’s world. While Annabella’s modern qualities are given their most emphatic presentation in Anne-Marie, she is not associated with the more active dimension of the modern woman – her modernity is still, as in her earlier films, defined largely through image rather than action. Consequently, by providing a surface modernity, which is undermined by her seemingly more ‘innate’, vulnerable femininity, Annabella continued to embody old-fashioned values, at a time when many women were seeking greater emancipation. What was starting to change, however, was that the increase in her surface modernity – her chic quality – was beginning to abstract her from the idealised French community she belonged to in the early 1930s. Anne-Marie’s focus on a modern milieu is part of Annabella’s move from the working-class quartier. This shift from the French community would increase further in the following years and it would be important to her performance in her final French film of the decade, Hôtel du Nord.

Une atmosphère pas ordinaire: Annabella in Hôtel du Nord Although Marcel Carné and his writing team for Hôtel du Nord (Jean Aurenche and Henri Jeanson) have been given most of the credit for the film, a poetic realist ‘masterpiece’, Annabella was crucial to the film’s genesis. Based on the novel L’Hôtel du Nord by 101

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Eugène Dabit,85 the film was initially conceived of as an Annabella (and Jean-Pierre Aumont) star vehicle. This was evident from the film’s marketing – one of the film’s posters stresses her centrality to the project, with her dominating the image and her name appearing at the top – as well as from her place in the credits, in which her name appears first. But not only did Annabella contribute to the film through her economic power; she is central to much of its meaning. The film provides the opportunity to consider the key aspects of Annabella’s cinematic stardom in their most developed form, which is what I shall do in this section. I will also consider further Annabella’s relationship with French femininity and the French socio-political context. However, to understand her significance to the film, it is first of all necessary to return to Arletty, who was Annabella’s co-star. In Chapter 1 I focused mostly on Arletty’s acting, persona and ideological significance; here I would like to concentrate more on her role in the film’s construction of a Parisian community. Arletty and the Parisian community For many people Arletty is the true star of Hôtel du Nord and as Vincendeau discusses she is the performer who is best remembered today (see quotation on page 61). Her character, Raymonde, one of the film’s principal roles, makes an important contribution to Carné’s populist cinema, a vision he had outlined five years earlier in his essay ‘When Will the Cinema Go Down into the Street?’.86 In this he states: Populism, you say. And after that? Neither the word nor the thing itself frightens us. To describe the simple life of humble people, to depict the atmosphere of hard-working humanity which is theirs, isn’t that better than reconstructing the murky and inflated ambiance of night clubs, dancing couples and a nonexistent nobility, which the cinema has kept on doing as long as they’ve been so abundantly profitable?87 In Hôtel du Nord, Raymonde is central to Carné’s description of ‘the simple life of humble people’ and his depiction of 102

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‘the atmosphere of hard-working humanity’. She is an extremely down-to-earth woman, embodying a recurring social type in the populist fiction of the period: the ‘prostitute with a heart of gold’. She lives in the Hôtel du Nord in the working-class area around the Canal Saint-Martin, where she spends her time working and trying to get along with her abusive boyfriend Edmond (Louis Jouvet). Throughout the film she displays warmth and humanity, becoming a popular figure in the community living in the Hôtel du Nord, and she embodies the vitality of the working class through her energetic behaviour, fast speech and body movements, and her capacity to become irate and impassioned in an instant. In addition, her humanity is emphasised through her faithfulness. As we have seen, at one point she aggressively sticks up for Edmond as he is questioned by the police, an act of loyalty which results in her spending four days in a police cell for possessing faulty papers. But one of the main qualities that is celebrated in Raymonde is that of resilience. Throughout the film she puts up with the abusive behaviour of Edmond with stoicism and wit. And then, when they break up, she simply finds another boyfriend, the cuckolded lock keeper, Prosper (Bernard Blier). In short, Raymonde is an embodiment of Carné’s populist glorification of the working class, which endows the ordinary people living in Paris with life-affirming values. As we have seen, Arletty’s persona revolved around her embodiment of a populist Parisienne, which made her ideal for the role of Raymonde. Central to this is her voice, which plays an important role in conveying her identity as a working-class Parisian. Indeed, it is worth highlighting that while Annabella’s career stemmed from her being photogenic, Arletty’s came from her being phonogenic: It was Arletty’s voice that brought her to the attention of movie makers during the early years of sound film. If the personality of a film star depends as much on the ‘phonogenic “grain of the voice”’ as on the ‘photogenic configuration of body and face,’ Arletty had extraordinary ‘phonogeneity.’ Her shrill, angular sound – which John Simon once described as ‘midway between a mountain stream and a gin-soaked parrot’ – crackles, granulates, grates, and cuts.88 103

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Arletty’s physical quality was also important to her embodiment of Raymonde, whose real, down-to-earth body is highlighted throughout the film in a number of ways: she suffers a number of ailments, such as the sore throat she is tending to in the first scene, and the black eye that Edmond gives her later in the film. Her corporeality is also emphasised when Edmond gets annoyed at her for putting food near her grooming products (her comb, her curling tongs, her toothbrush), contrasting her disregard for hygiene with his impeccable cleanliness. Where Annabella signifies the timeless through her idealised beauty, Arletty’s physical appearance is in keeping with her down-to-earth identity; in contrast to Annabella, whose beauty had been the main element in her rise to stardom, Arletty was, as we have seen, considered by many to lack the attractiveness and the youthfulness required of a film star. Indeed, age is an important difference between Arletty and Annabella. While Annabella was defined by her youthful persona (she was still only twenty-nine), Arletty was thirty-nine by the time she made Hôtel du Nord. Yet, although she lacks the glamorous beauty of Annabella, Arletty’s different type of beauty is crucial to her portrayal of Raymonde’s warmth. This is indicated from her first appearance in the film. Lucette, the daughter of a policeman who lives in the building, enters her room with a piece of cake sent from the communion party that is going on downstairs, saying ‘good evening Raymonde’. At this point the film shows Raymonde revealing her face from behind a towel as she lifts herself from the bowl she has been using to steam her sore throat. On seeing Lucette, Raymonde’s distinctive, large smile appears across her face, conveying the kindness that will define Raymonde throughout the film. Arletty also lends greater physicality to Raymonde through the theatricality of her performance style. One of the scenes that is most illustrative of this is a famous sequence in which Raymonde argues with Edmond on a bridge crossing the Canal Saint-Martin (Figure 12). The whole scene is delivered in one take enabling Arletty and Jouvet’s performance to be captured in its continuity: it begins with Raymonde and Edmond walking from the hotel to cross the bridge, and ends with Raymonde returning the way they came, on her own. Although she is initially 104

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Figure 12

Louis Jouvet and Arletty in Hôtel du Nord

calm and subdued, Edmond’s assertion that he needs a change of atmosphere and that she is the atmosphere from which he needs to escape prompts her to burst into a fit of rage, screaming the famous line: ‘Atmosphère? Atmosphère? Est-ce que j’ai une gueule d’atmosphère?’ (‘Atmosphere? Atmosphere? Do I look like an atmosphere?’). As she delivers this, she looks him up and down, and, holding his fishing basket in her left hand, uses her right arm to make an unusual gesture, quickly whipping it out to her right and back again to point at herself. The wide shot enables us to fully appreciate her animation, particularly as it is emphasised by the contrast between her smaller physique and Edmond’s larger, stationary body. While her ordinariness is confirmed through her opposition to the pretentiousness of Edmond and her Parisian slang (‘gueule’ translates as ‘mug’), her energetic performance style and sharp wit make Raymonde an attractive character. As this scene highlights, Arletty’s treatment by the camera plays a crucial role in her portrayal of Raymonde. Although she receives a few close-ups (for example, her first shot in the film), she 105

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is more generally filmed in wider, ensemble shots. This is important in part because it highlights the absence of Hollywood-style glamour from her stardom, in comparison with other stars of the decade, such as Annabella. But more importantly, this strategy is used to emphasise Raymonde’s place within the broader community. In a scene early in the film, we see Raymonde sat at the table at the first communion party, integrated in an ensemble shot with the other people who live in the hotel and interacting with them in a single take. In joining the festivities a little late, she has pulled up a chair to sit in the corner. However, despite being at the periphery of the table, and being one individual among many, in a medium-wide shot, Arletty’s charisma again enables her to demonstrate the vitality of Raymonde. She interrupts Monsieur Lecouvreur as he tells everybody about his happiest day, which was when he bought the hotel, saying ‘Fancy crying over a café! How sad!’ To summarise, Arletty’s persona, performance style and her cinematic treatment all play an important role in creating Raymonde, a character who is depicted as being at once an ordinary woman as well as an embodiment of the finest values and qualities of Paris’s working class communities. Consequently, Arletty’s theatrical form of stardom makes an important contribution to Hôtel du Nord’s populist discourses. But these meanings gain their full significance through their juxtaposition with Annabella and her characterisation of Renée. A pinnacle of cinematic stardom In many ways Renée is just an ordinary woman, arriving with Pierre (Aumont) at the Hôtel du Nord in poverty and as an orphan. As a ‘waif ’, she, like Raymonde, conforms to a common ‘type’ within the populist mythology of the 1930s. However, she is clearly established as being apart from the community, something that is evident from her first scenes in the film. Whereas all the other characters either live in or around the Hôtel du Nord, we see Renée and Pierre enter the dramatic space by crossing a bridge on the Canal Saint-Martin from outside, from an unspecified ‘elsewhere’. Also, as the film ends with them re-crossing the 106

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bridge, they are again shown to be outside the film’s community, as pointed out by Andrew and Ungar: ‘This visual symmetry sets them apart from the film’s other characters, especially Louis Jouvet’s Edmond, whose attempt to escape a shady past (“for a change of atmosphere”) is doomed.’89 This point is stressed further in a scene that follows Renée and Pierre’s entrance into the film. Raymonde has just joined the family-like community in the hotel who are sat around the table during the first communion celebration. As the group laugh, the hotel’s door opens in the background and Renée and Pierre enter, walking slowly and silently towards the table. Their entrance is so inconspicuous that many of the people in the room (and probably members of the audience too) do not notice their presence until Mme Lecouvreur says: ‘Jeanne, go see what they want.’ Renée and Pierre’s separation from the group at the table is stressed by the scene remaining for some time on the wide shot. This enables us to see the hotel’s community unified by the geometry and circularity of their sitting positions and their cohabitation of the same plane of action. Moreover, the two groups are separated by mood. Whereas the gathering around the table is full of laughter and humour, Renée and Pierre exude a subdued melancholy, articulated through their motionless bodies and their gloomy expressions. Indeed, Renée and Pierre begin the film as the quintessential doomed lovers of poetic realism (Figure 13). The change in tone they introduce is heightened in the next scene as they discuss their plans to commit suicide. While their conversation reveals that their decision to kill themselves is partly motivated by economic factors (Pierre mentions their failure to be given credit), it becomes apparent that they are being driven by more existentialist and romantic notions, stating that in death they will be able to find freedom. When Renée allows Pierre to fire a bullet into her chest, she confirms unequivocally her devotion to such ideas. Although she survives, she is deeply affected by the emotional impact that the evening has had on her. As if addicted to the romantic sentiments that seemed to become concrete during that evening, Renée is drawn back to the hotel as soon as she is allowed out of the hospital, initially returning to the room to savour the memories it evokes, before taking a job there to earn 107

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money while remaining close to the place where such powerful emotions were created. Her intense romanticism is expressed further at a number of points in the film, especially when, moved by Edmond’s declaration of his feelings for her, she suggests that they run away together, thus drawing on another romantic trope – that of elopement. As Renée’s dialogue indicates, she equates romantic fulfilment with escape, freedom and transcendence, all states that she evidently aspires towards. However, not only does she aspire to such elevation for herself, she also signifies that elevation to others. While working at the Hôtel du Nord, her attractiveness to members of the opposite sex is clear; as she serves food in her job as a waitress, the men in the room are besotted by her, especially Edmond, whose love for her eventually leads to his death. As Raymonde states at one point in the film: ‘Ah, vous êtes une atmosphère pas ordinaire!’ (Ah, you aren’t an ordinary atmosphere!’).

Figure 13 Annabella and Jean-Pierre Aumont in Hôtel du Nord. BFI Stills, Posters and Designs 108

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Annabella’s persona was in many ways ideally suited to the character of Renée, which is unsurprising as the role was written with her in mind. As discussed, Annabella’s characters were frequently vulnerable, romantic and sentimental. By being a midinette, who is largely uninfluenced by the modern discourses of the time (her sole concern is love), Renée is in many ways a reversion to the characters of Béatrice and Anna in Clair’s Le Million and Quatorze juillet. In fact, Turk explains that Carné, who was initially not keen on working with Annabella, saw that her ‘talents had been put to fine use in Clair’s populist romance Quatorze Juillet’,90 which to some extent explains the similarity between Anna and Renée. As a matter of fact, the film’s poetic realism heightens and intensifies Annabella’s romanticism to an almost sinister degree. While other films depict her sentimentality as a sweet and harmless quality, which ensures her devotion to her man, in Hôtel du Nord Renée is almost pathological in her need to experience profound romantic love, to the point of death. Moreover, whereas her romanticism in the Clair films is depicted as a homogenising quality, which brings members of the community together, in Hôtel du Nord it is so extreme it proves to be a disturbing and divisive force, initially prompting Ginette (Paulette Dubost) to run off with Kenel (Andrex) (fearing, correctly, that he is attracted to Renée), before leading Edmond to express to Raymonde his desire for a change of ‘atmosphere’, which brings about the end of their relationship. Indeed, Renée’s effect on Edmond highlights that her need for romance is no longer the comforting virtue that it was in the René Clair films. Instead, her suicidal romanticism instils in him a fatalistic death drive, causing him in the film’s final moments to willingly be killed by a gangster he had double-crossed some years before. Here we can clearly see that Renée is a typical product of poetic realism; by unknowingly drawing a man towards his death through her transcendent appeal, she is similar to the heroines of Carné’s other poetic realist films of the period, Nelly (Michèle Morgan) in Le Quai des brumes and Françoise (Jacqueline Laurent) in Le Jour se lève. Renée’s position outside the community in Hôtel du Nord gains meaning from Annabella’s extra filmic persona, particularly from the nature of her cinematic stardom. Unlike Arletty, 109

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whose career in the 1930s took her between the theatre and film, Annabella, of course, worked almost entirely in the cinema. This meant it was less easy to see Annabella ‘in the flesh’ than it was with Arletty. The effect of this is that it will have given the impression that, whereas Arletty was a feature of the immanent world, Annabella existed elsewhere in a realm that was accessible only through films and fan magazines. To some extent articles in magazines did discuss Annabella’s existence in the everyday world, often associating her with Paris, where many of the readers lived. One letter to Pour Vous written by an excited fan described at length seeing Annabella and her identity as a Parisienne: Parisienne? It is perhaps the word that suits her best: she has its chic, its spontaneity, the mischevious charm, the simplicity, the attraction. Ah! César and all of you, readers of Pour Vous, readers in Paris, readers in the provinces, readers in foreign countries, if you had been with me to see her, two days before her departure, how thrilled you would have been!91 However, despite being a Parisienne, Annabella will still have been far removed from the majority of her fans. Whereas Arletty’s persona stressed her connection to a populist Paris located in the working-class quartiers, Annabella was associated at this point, as the quotation indicates, with a chic and high-class Paris. Moreover, by the time she made Hôtel du Nord, Annabella was even further from the world that her French fans inhabited. She had recently spent almost a year making three films in the United Kingdom – Wings of the Morning, Under the Red Robe (Victor Sjöström, 1937) and Dinner at the Ritz – before moving to Hollywood to become a star at Twentieth Century Fox. During this phase of her career, regular articles in French fan magazines would discuss her new life. Often she would be shown among the Hollywood stars of the period, emphasising her existence in an elevated sphere of existence and one that would make the world of Parisian theatre seem ordinary by comparison. For example, in 1938, before the release of Hôtel du Nord, Annabella discussed her new life in a letter to her fans published in Pour Vous: 110

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From midinette to Hollywood star: Annabella

I have already made the acquaintance of many great American stars and directors, Norma Shearer and Virginia Bruce are the most beautiful, and Lubitsch and Georges Cukor the most interesting, but I have especially had the pleasure of getting to know better three of the most adorable of my compatriots Simone [Simon], Danielle [Darrieux] and Micheline Cheirel. And when we go shopping together on Hollywood Boulevard, or chat while having tea, (to the detriment of our respective accents) we feel a little as if we have found the Avenue of the Champs-Élysées again.92 At the time of Hôtel du Nord’s release, items promoting Annabella’s identity as a Hollywood star were ubiquitous. In Pour Vous’s 1938 Christmas special there is, on pages 26 and 27, a two-page feature on Hôtel du Nord.93 Fans of the time reading about the film would have had freshly in their memory another article appearing three pages earlier entitled ‘Les Vedettes de la 20th Century-Fox vous souhaitent un joyeux noël!’ (‘The stars of Twentieth Century-Fox wish you a Happy Christmas’),94 which includes a picture of Annabella, along with images of Shirley Temple, Tyrone Power and Loretta Young, among others. Unlike Arletty, then, who could be seen in real life on the Parisian stage, Annabella, at the time of Hôtel du Nord’s release, was shown to exist far away in Hollywood. This would clearly have played an important role in her portrayal of Renée, a character who belongs outside the community at the Hôtel du Nord. Indeed, in the final scene, as she leaves the hotel, re-crossing the bridge with Pierre, there is a clear convergence between character and star; it is not only Renée who is returning to another place but also Annabella, who is departing from France once more to resume her Hollywood career. Not only would Annabella’s work in Hollywood have been significant in forming Renée’s identity as someone who belongs outside the Hôtel du Nord’s community, it would also have played an important role in suggesting her status as an ‘elevated’ presence. To some extent, even before her Hollywood work, Annabella’s persona conferred extraordinariness upon the characters she played, as is evident in her performances in Le 111

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Million and Quatorze juillet. However, as she was now identified as ‘a star of Twentieth Century Fox’, she was elevated further, appearing even more glamorous. This Hollywood-style glamour plays a crucial role in bestowing upon Renée the ethereal quality that makes her cause such a stir at the Hôtel du Nord. Despite being a ‘waif’, suffering from financial hardship, Renée is beautiful, well dressed and well made-up. The treatment Annabella receives from the camera ensures that these qualities are highlighted and embellished, something that is especially evident in the early scene in which Renée and Pierre prepare to commit suicide in their bedroom. Starting from when they are alone together in the room, the scene lasts almost four minutes and consists of nine mostly static shots. The gentle and evenly paced editing places more emphasis on the photogenic images that make up the scene, in which the couple, bathed in Hollywoodstyle glamour lighting, are shown from a variety of angles and distances. Emphasis on the photogenic nature of the two performers is maintained through their nuanced acting, which is especially evident when Annabella stands by the bedroom’s window, its frame enclosing her like a picture. As she leans against the frame, her motionlessness is stressed by the sound of moving water in the nearby canal and by Aumont slowly walking up to her from behind. The result is an image that captures the otherworldly nature of Renée, while showcasing the Hollywood glamour of Annabella. The midinette as exceptional individual Hôtel du Nord gains much of its meaning from the relationship between the different personas of Annabella and Arletty. Whereas Arletty’s persona made her ideal for her portrayal of the down-to-earth but life-embracing and animated Raymonde, Annabella’s assisted in her portrayal of Renée, a vulnerable and romantic character, dreaming of something higher, while signifying this for other characters in the film. Of all her French films in the 1930s it was in Hôtel du Nord that Annabella achieved the most ‘elevation’, ‘distance’ and ‘glamour’, qualities that were crucial to her cinematic stardom and which were enhanced by her spell in 112

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Hollywood. While her role in the film is now overshadowed by Arletty’s performance, it was at the time a pinnacle of cinematic stardom. However, in another way, Hôtel du Nord was certainly not a pinnacle. As figures in Appendix 1 show, in 1938, the year of the film’s release, Annabella had plummeted in popularity. The presentation of Annabella as a successful Hollywood star did not increase her appeal with the French public. Why did it not do this? In the preceding section I have discussed the important narrative and aesthetic role that is played by Annabella’s detachment in Hôtel du Nord. I would now like to argue that such detachment was not only illustrative of her cinematic stardom; it was also symptomatic of her changing relationship with France. We have seen that Annabella’s Hollywood career influenced her characterisation of Renée by embellishing her elevation and distance. However, as well as using her Hollywood stardom, Hôtel du Nord also provides a representation of it. As Vincendeau points out: ‘her role in Hôtel du Nord is a French view of Hollywood stardom’.95 That she was viewed in this way is indicated by Annabella’s own comments: Of course, the tables were now turned for me in France because, after I had been in England and America, the director was very much in awe of me. He thought coming from California maybe I would be a pretentious star. He had an elegant new dressing room waiting for me – a caravan super deluxe – and everyone treated me as being much older.96 This suggests that the glamorous Hollywood treatment Annabella receives in the film is not just part of Carné’s description of Renée (as elevated and remote), but it is also his description of Annabella as a Hollywood star and consequently as a star disconnected from French stardom and French society itself. In the 1930s her trajectory had led her from the working-class milieu (which was itself an abstraction of France) to Parisian high society, to the United Kingdom and finally to California. Once in Hollywood, her French origins were further effaced, first by her divorce from the French star Jean Murat (this was settled during her trip back to France to film Hôtel du Nord) and then with her 113

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marriage to the Hollywood star Tyrone Power, which was highly publicised in France at the time.97 The extract from Annabella’s letter discussed above (p. 111) highlights Annabella’s distance from her French public through her attempt to evoke a continuing connection with France. She may have feared that her Hollywood career would make her seem too distant from her fans – a gulf she tries to bridge through her references to the Champs-Élysées and her French compatriots. Consequently, while it emphasises that she is a French citizen, it does so by stressing that she is an extraordinary one. Such efforts were surely in vain: by socialising with Norma Shearer and Georges Cukor in Hollywood it was clear that Annabella was no longer a humble midinette. This is especially apparent if we consider the difference between the nature of her early midinette persona and her portrayal of a midinette in Hôtel du Nord. As we have seen, without complicated psychology, Annabella’s early midinette blended ordinariness with extraordinariness in such a way that she functioned as an abstraction of qualities belonging to the community as a whole, such as, in particular, romance. However, as Annabella’s career developed, this changed; she maintained her ‘abstract’, idealising quality, but the values abstracted did not remain the same; in particular, there was greater emphasis on her chicness. As the 1930s progressed, Annabella became more exceptional, something which reaches its pinnacle with her performance in Hôtel du Nord. This is evident in the change in how she is treated by men. In Le Million she is one of two women seeking the same man, a situation that is repeated in Quatorze juillet. Later in the decade there is a reversal; instead of fighting with another woman over one man, she tends to have a number of men fighting over her. As we saw, this is the case in Anne-Marie, but it would find its most extreme expression in Hôtel du Nord, in which all the male characters are completely in awe of her. This is accompanied by an increase in character psychology, with Renée being defined as an individual with a very different attitude to life from that of the community at the Hôtel du Nord. So whereas in the Clair films she is an abstraction of the community, in Hôtel du Nord she is abstracted from the community: the emphasis shifts from her idealising the community to idealising herself. 114

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From midinette to Hollywood star: Annabella

Annabella’s new type of stardom made her distinct from the decade’s theatrical stars. In contrast to their ‘grounded’ nature, Annabella had key ‘cinematic’ qualities: nuanced acting, photogenic glamour, abstraction. However, while her cinematic stardom facilitated her ascendancy as a star, it clearly did not guarantee her success; what made her popular, or not, was how her cinematic qualities were used to support particular values in particular contexts. Initially her cinematic stardom was channelled into the creation of a timeless and glamorised vision of the old-fashioned midinette, and in pre-Popular Front France such a persona proved to be hugely successful. But with the major social changes and shifts in attitude brought about by the Popular Front, this particular inflection of cinematic stardom became less important. The case of Hôtel du Nord furthers this point: while her cinematic abstraction was central to her ascent to stardom in France, it also contributed to her descent; it had initially made her representative of the French, but by the time of Hôtel du Nord it had become the quality that emphasised her difference from the French. This pinnacle of cinematic stardom raised Annabella too high, lifting her far above the ordinary French lives for which she no longer had relevance. The gap was such that her star persona was no longer able to bridge it. However, the fact that Annabella’s appeal began to decline from the Popular Front onwards does not mean that cinematic stardom ceased to be important. On the contrary, different manifestations appeared, the ‘cinematic’ was put to different uses. Indeed, around the mid-1930s, Danielle Darrieux’s appeal was growing and with it came a different version of cinematic stardom.

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4

A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

Danielle Darrieux was another extremely successful star in 1930s France. She reached, according to figures from La Cinématographie Française, the position of ninth most popular star in 1936 and second most popular female, behind Gaby Morlay.1 The next year she rose even higher in the polls to become the second most popular star overall, behind Fernandel, and the top female star; here she was positioned well ahead of Annabella, who was in second place, by a very large number of ‘points’ (6330 to 2080).2 The article highlights the apparent inevitability of her success: ‘Thus, Danielle Darrieux came first, which nobody doubted.’3 Although she dropped slightly in 1938 (to become second female, behind Viviane Romance, and fourth most popular star overall), her appeal was expanding into new areas. Following the success in the USA of Mayerling (Anatole Litvak, 1936), a French film she starred in with Charles Boyer, Hollywood began to show interest in her and she signed in 1938 to Universal where she made The Rage of Paris (Henry Koster, 1938). In this chapter I will argue that much of Darrieux’s appeal came from her identity as a cinematic star. In particular, I shall discuss the following: How was her stardom ‘new’? How did this contribute to her success and her aesthetic significance? And what effect did it have on her participation in ideological discourses of the time? However, before I can explore these issues, there is another more basic question that needs to be asked: Was Darrieux a star at all? In his recent work on the French cinema of the 1930s, Colin Crisp asserts that there were no French stars produced during the decade, aside from Jean Gabin and Michèle Morgan (whom I consider in the next chapter). He argues not only 116

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that they were ‘the clearest instances of actors or actresses who came to embody mythic stereotypes, which they subsequently brought ready-made to each new film’ but also that no other stars received ‘the level of obsessive analysis which surrounded [their] performances’.4 He states that the appeal of the decade’s other performers, such as Darrieux (whom he directly refers to), ‘was more transparent and less troubling’,5 qualities that ‘real’ stars should not possess. For Crisp stars should be challenging and ambiguous; they should be mysterious. But must all stars be mysterious? It is certainly the case that many of the cinema’s most celebrated stars have possessed this quality in abundance. For example, as we saw in Chapter 2, Greta Garbo was an enigmatic star. The same is also true of Marlene Dietrich, as discussed by Erica Carter: ‘Her characters retain the ambiguities that were a source of Dietrich’s mystery from early on.’6 For such stars, mystery is a key ‘star quality’. However, it is also clearly the case that, without being mysterious, many other stars have been extremely popular, creating lasting cultural legacies that have informed popular notions and definitions of what constitutes stardom. For example, James Cagney is certainly not mysterious, neither through his performance style nor through his persona. Yet it would be absurd to claim he was not a star. Similarly, while iconic performers like Joan Crawford, Ginger Rogers and Judy Garland were all extremely glamorous, their appeal was based upon their embodiment of the ordinary American girl, not mystery. In the French context, the star status of actors such as Fernandel also challenges Crisp’s assumption. Although Crisp rightly identifies one interesting ‘star quality’, he is, on the whole, reductive and limiting in his definition of stardom. Stars are often important precisely because they are transparent and not troubling; they will often seem to be natural and inevitable features of their historical and cultural contexts, and embodiments of popular ideas and trends. In this chapter I will argue that much of Darrieux’s importance comes from her relevance to the social and cultural climate at the time of the Popular Front in the mid-1930s. Whereas this was the moment at which Annabella’s popularity started to decline, it was when Darrieux ascended to become the most popular French female star. In 117

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order to explore this ascent, it is first of all necessary to consider her discovery and early career.

Managing Darrieux A number of people played an important role in Darrieux’s elevation to stardom. Of particular importance were the producers Charles Vandal and Louis Delac, who managed her during her first few years as a performer; the popular star Albert Préjean, with whom she appeared in a number of her early films; and Henri Decoin, who from the mid-1930s onwards was her manager and who directed her on a number of occasions (at this time he also became her husband). Darrieux entered the cinema directly. Without previous stage experience, she was ‘discovered’ when she was fourteen years old by Vandal and Delac who cast her in Le Bal (Wilhelm Thiele, 1931). But if she was not chosen for her acting talents, why was she chosen? What made her stand out as a candidate for stardom? We can speculate that, as with Annabella, her physical appearance played an important role in her initial discovery. A summary by Albert Préjean of her ‘qualities’ focuses mostly on her appearance, mentioning her actual ‘talent’ as more of an afterthought: ‘She’s young but she’s got great qualities. You’d be very silly not to cash in on them. She’s a really remarkable girl. She’s young, pretty, she’s got everything, even talent…’7 Her distinctive features include her large eyes, with long eyelashes, her wild curly hair and her small mouth, which Vincendeau describes as ‘heart-shaped’ and in a ‘permanent pout’.8 She was also quite tall and very slim, with a long neck (an article in Le Figaro on 20 March 1936 referred to her as ‘la giraffe’).9 Her voice, which also highlights her youth by its high tones, was neutral and classless, again placing her in opposition to many of the period’s theatrical stars, who in some cases had accents (Parisian, Marseillais or foreign). At the beginning of her career, Darrieux’s youthfulness meant she was not able to play many lead roles. Her early successes came in films like Coquecigrole (André Berthomieu, 1931) and Panurge (Michel Bernheim, 1932), in which she played children. However, 118

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

her career began to take off when she was a few years older and began appearing in films with Albert Préjean. In his autobiography, The Sky and the Stars, Préjean describes how he was trying to find an actor to play the part of Nicole in La Crise est finie (Robert Siodmak, 1934) when he met Darrieux, who expressed interest in working with him: ‘Two days later Danielle was engaged. As she had signed an exclusive contract with Vandal and Delac I advanced her 50,000 francs to settle things up with them.’10 This would prove to be an important move for Darrieux as it was through her films with Préjean that her fame began to increase dramatically. Préjean rather immodestly saw his own influence as being of great importance to her career, writing: the only person who promoted her at her début – apart from those who engaged her to film for the first time in Le Bal – was myself. I didn’t endow her with talent – she had enough and to spare – but I added several years to her career. And in this difficult profession, when today’s big success often has no tomorrow, this is exceptionally lucky for a young actress.11 Préjean and Darrieux made seven films together during the 1930s in a partnership that was very popular. A number of letters sent to Pour Vous praised the duo they formed, with one fan writing: ‘Albert Préjean has found an ideal partner in Danièle [sic] Darrieux. He has been searching for one for a long time. That is a good couple.’12 Darrieux herself advances a similar explanation for their success: ‘We formed in effect a sort of ideal couple: me the insufferable adolescent and him, the good fellow, resourceful and charming.’13 Although Darrieux’s popularity grew as a result of her films with Préjean, she was usually the lesser star. However, this was not always the case as Darrieux points out: ‘One exception: Quelle drôle de gosse!, because I had the main role and I led the action. Furthermore, the film was a triumph and, for the first time, the public confused the actress with the character.’14 Around this time Darrieux’s career would take another leap forward, through the influence of Henri Decoin, her manager, director and husband. Their status as a prominent couple offscreen – something that was discussed in articles, such as ‘Ce que 119

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révèlent leurs visages: Danielle Darrieux et Henri Decoin’ (‘What their faces reveal: Danielle Darrieux and Henri Decoin’)15 – made them comparable to other famous European star–director couples of the period, such as Dietrich–von Sternberg and Garbo–Stiller. Indeed, like these directors, Decoin was a cinematic ‘Pygmalion’; he played a significant role in the creation of Darrieux’s stardom. As statistics in Appendix 1 indicate, Darrieux’s popularity increased in the latter half of the 1930s, the period in which Decoin exerted most influence on her career. However, not only did he push her higher in the French film industry, he also played an important role in managing her move to Hollywood, considering very carefully which film she should make there, before finally deciding on The Rage of Paris. While key figures in Annabella’s career, such as Gance and Clair, were aggressively opposed to filmed theatre, Decoin spoke highly of many of the writers and directors working within this genre: The day that playwrights understand that you can create life on a studio floor just like on stage, then cinema will no longer be just an industry but also an art. Pagnol has proved it, Yves Mirande has demonstrated it, and so have Jacques Deval and Sacha Guitry.16 Decoin’s interest in the theatre influenced his management of Darrieux. He cast her in Jeux dangereux, the only play she appeared in during the 1930s, which was staged in 1937. In addition, the four Darrieux films he directed in the 1930s were based on plays or written by prominent playwrights: Le Domino vert (Henri Decoin and Herbert Selpin, 1935) was adapted from L’Affaire claasen by Erich Ebermayer; Mademoiselle ma mère (Henri Decoin, 1937) was originally a stage play by Louis Verneuil; and Abus de confiance (Henri Decoin, 1937) and Retour à l’aube (Henri Decoin, 1938) were both written by the celebrated boulevardier Pierre Wolff (the latter based on a novel by Vicki Baum). Despite this, Decoin clearly realised that Darrieux’s importance was as a cinematic star. The first film he directed her in was Le Domino vert, in which she

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took the central role and was supported by Charles Vanel and Maurice Escande. While the film includes Darrieux in a few shots that are reminiscent of the decade’s filmed theatre, on the whole she is subject to a cinematic treatment, most strikingly through a number of glamorous close-ups that celebrate her beauty and demonstrate her ability to adopt a restrained acting style. As we shall see, Darrieux was also given a cinematic treatment in other Decoin films. Decoin was also important to Darrieux’s career because he encouraged her to work in both comedies and dramas. Although she had previously performed supporting roles in Mauvaise graine (Billy Wilder, 1934) and Volga en flammes (Viktor Tourjansky, 1933), it was in Le Domino vert that she first took the lead role in a dramatic film. Of the four Darrieux films that Decoin directed during the 1930s, three were dramas: Le Domino vert, Abus de confiance and Retour à l’aube. In addition, under Decoin’s management, Darrieux was cast in Mayerling, a lavish melodrama that achieved great success in France and abroad. But Darrieux’s importance at this time also came from her many lead roles in comedies. As the star of films like Quelle drôle de gosse! (Léo Joannon, 1935), Club de femmes (Jacques Deval, 1936), Un mauvais garçon (Jean Boyer, 1936) and Mademoiselle ma mère, Darrieux became a new phenomenon in the French cinema, as a female star who combined comedy with romance. As we shall see, the way she functioned aesthetically and ideologically in both her dramas and comedies was determined to a significant degree by key elements of her cinematic stardom. I shall return to this later in the chapter. But first it is important to consider the main features of the persona that Darrieux developed in the cinema of the 1930s.

The modern jeune fille One of the main aspects of Darrieux’s early persona was her embodiment of a naive and innocent jeune fille, a form of femininity that shared much of the humility and passivity of the midinette, but which tended to be associated with a higher social class, in

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part because the midinette was a worker. Discussing the jeune fille, Whitney Walton writes: the French jeune fille [was] the sheltered, virginal, obedient young woman of the middle or upper class. For over a century, families of the comfortable classes in France expected marriage to be the destiny of their daughters, and they sought to protect the virginity and preserve the innocence of girls for this purpose. This was not always possible, especially after the economic, demographic and cultural disruption of World War I. Growing numbers of women seeking higher education and professional careers undermined the ideal of the bourgeois jeune fille. Nonetheless, this ideal resonated throughout France in the 1920s and 1930s.17 Central to Darrieux’s creation of this femininity was her youthfulness, which stemmed in large part from her appearance; not only because she was young – owing to her direct entry into the cinema – but also because she had a particularly youthful physiognomy. Gisèle de Biezville wrote in Pour Vous: ‘Those of you who want to be like her, you have to pluck your eyebrows like her, which will accentuate your youthful appearance.’18 Her large childish eyes, which are one of the main sources of this juvenility, were often mentioned in her publicity of the period: ‘Danielle Darrieux “a graceful fresh-faced blonde … her limpid eyes open on the world.”’19 As with Annabella, such youthfulness was frequently used to denote vulnerability and passivity, qualities that were also stressed through the nature of her acting: she would often – though as we shall see, certainly not always – perform in a low-key and nuanced, self-effacing way. This is evident in Mayerling when Marie Vetsera (Darrieux) is at the opera, seated confined within her family’s box. As Archduke Rudolph (Charles Boyer) gazes at her and the camera glides towards her face, she makes small movements, lowering her eyes and then after a couple more seconds, slowly turns her head. Within the context of the film, this acting is significant, ensuring that in relation to the larger, more powerful acting of the theatrically trained Boyer, she appears weak and submissive. 122

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

Darrieux’s nuanced acting also brought ‘purity’ to her jeune fille identity. In most of her films she remains virginal and in many – though again, as we shall see, certainly not all – she directs her attention towards idealised romantic love. As with Annabella, such purity is in part a product of her typical Aryan features (her white skin, light hair and pale eyes), characteristics that were emphasised in her films and publicity. In Mayerling, her whiteness and long neck associate her with the film’s recurring motif of swans. When Rudolph first meets Marie at a fair in Vienna, he plays a game at one of the stalls, which involves trying to throw a hoop around the neck of a swan; his success at this metaphorically predicts the fact that he will also ‘win’ Marie. Then when they next see each other at the theatre, Swan Lake is being performed, a ballet that has parallels with their own story, particularly as each involves a Prince who cannot marry for love. This association with swans as clean, white, natural creatures enhances Darrieux’s purity in the film. As one review noted: ‘Very few artists would have expressed so purely the deep feelings of the jeune fille.’20 As a jeune fille, Darrieux was ideal for embodying ‘daughters’ in the decade’s quasi-incestuous relationships. She was cast alongside significantly older male performers in a number of films, such as Quelle drôle de gosse! (with Préjean), Mademoiselle ma mère (Alerme) and Abus de confiance (Charles Vanel – I consider this film in detail later in the chapter). Darrieux’s off-screen romance and marriage to Decoin also replicated this narrative. He was twentyseven years older than her and, as a key creator of her stardom, played an important guiding, paternal role in her career, as an article discussing their relationship indicates: ‘For Danielle Darrieux to be happy she needs a guide, a tender, understanding support. A helpful hand, which is steady and very gentle.’21 So far I have emphasised Darrieux’s possession of key qualities belonging to the jeune fille: she is innocent, natural, romantic, and in need of male guidance. However, Darrieux would also frequently portray less well-behaved daughters, something that is evident from her first appearance in Katia. Just before her entrance, we see her bedridden father (Marcel Simon) who, on hearing her approach, throws his hands in the air, as if to say ‘that’s all I need’. We then see Katia (Darrieux) striding down the 123

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stairs singing ‘La Marseillaise’. Because she is the daughter of a Russian aristocrat during the time of the French Revolution, her choice of song immediately establishes her rebelliousness. In the scene that follows, she does not perform with the low-key acting used in Mayerling; instead she uses her body and voice to create a performance full of energy and movement. As she complains to her father through his bedroom door, which he won’t open, the fast speed of her physical movements is mirrored by the rapidity of her quickly delivered dialogue. The scene immediately establishes her youthfulness in contrast to the old age of her bedridden and bemused father, and her unruliness in contrast to the formal servant. These qualities were also evident in Darrieux’s off-screen persona. In an article for Pour Vous, entitled ‘Un jour au studio avec Danièle [sic] Darrieux’ (‘A day at the studio with Danièle Darrieux), Serge Veber described Darrieux’s ‘real-life’ behaviour, writing: In the canteen. She tells the waiter off, picks at the food to the left and the right, changes table, lets out a war cry, sees a face that pleases her, changes table again, has a mouthful of wine, scrounges a cigarette, gnaws a bone, swallows a vermouth, orders a café-crème, swears that she will never again drink alcohol, sips a cocktail and descending suddenly into melancholy, asks for a glass of Vichy water.22 In extreme instances, Darrieux’s childish precociousness manifests itself in the form of a full-scale tantrum, which became a central set piece in many of her films, occurring in Quelle drôle de gosse!, Mademoiselle ma mère and Katia. Following her confrontation with her father, Katia goes outside, where she discovers the estate’s gardeners are planting a flowerbed blossoming in the shape of an A, to symbolise the family’s allegiance to the Tsar, Alexander II (John Loder). The rebellious Katia does not share this loyalty. In fury, she drags a horse on to the flower bed and jumps up and down, which combined with the high tones of her squealing, forms a striking image of her childish impudence. As a jeune fille, then, Darrieux is at times passive and vulnerable, and, at other times, unruly and badly behaved. Both extremes 124

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emphasise her juvenility and imply that she needs men to bring control and stability to her life. However, while her tantrums are in many ways futile, they are also signs of her resistance, her desire to challenge the men who try to control her life. Here the image of the spoilt bourgeois daughter easily slips into something a little more radical. Indeed, another key aspect of her persona explored such possibilities; in addition to her identity as a jeune fille, Darrieux, like Annabella, was also a modern woman. As a cinematic star, a number of her innate qualities meant she was ideally predisposed towards portraying this type. Her youthfulness was particularly important, making her more readily associated with new discourses. Also, by being tall and slim she conformed to the modern woman’s physical stature; we have already seen in Table 1 that her body was comparable to those of Hollywood modern women like Joan Crawford and Jean Harlow. While possessing this internationally popular physique, her appearance was also seen as particularly French, as an article in Pour Vous stated: ‘Danielle Darrieux has very French beauty, and although the studio monopolises her to the point of depriving her of physical culture, she maintains a very slim figure.’23 She was thus seen as a French inflection of the modern woman. Like Annabella, Darrieux gained much of her modernity through her possession of glamour, a quality that is evident throughout her films, particularly in the numerous close-ups she receives. We witness this treatment in Le Domino vert (Figure 14), in which, through a combination of her stylish hat, the soft lighting and a careful use of make-up, she possesses the impeccable appearance associated with Hollywood stars of the period. Such flawless images fed the ideology of personal grooming that was central to the modern woman’s lifestyle. Indeed, Darrieux was a role model for aspiring modern women in France, with articles discussing how to attain an appearance like hers, such as one entitled ‘Ciné-maquillage: Voudriez-vous ressembler à … Danielle Darrieux?’24 (‘Ciné-make-up: Would you like to look like Danielle Darrieux?’). Darrieux also appeared in countless fashion pages, in magazines like Pour Vous and Cinémonde, and wore many upto-date costumes in her films, including a fashionable beret and 125

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Figure 14

Danielle Darrieux in Le Domino vert

overcoat in Abus de confiance, and a swimsuit in Le Domino vert; she also appeared in a swimsuit in publicity photos, highlighting that she was a modern woman off-screen. However, Darrieux’s costumes were not modern only because they were fashionable; sometimes her clothing also had an androgynous quality, which, as Adam C. Stanley explains, was a prominent feature of the modern woman: ‘Identifiable by their short hair and functional wardrobe commensurate with an active, working life, “modern women” had a boyish or androgynous look, nothing at all resembling the traditional image of “respectable” womanhood.’25 In her films and publicity materials, Darrieux frequently appears in ‘masculine’ clothing, wearing such garments as trousers, and suit jackets and ties. We see this, for example, in Un mauvais garçon and Mademoiselle ma mère, and in an article in Pour Vous entitled ‘Tailleurs d’hiver’ (‘Winter suits’),26 which includes an image of Darrieux dressed in this way. In addition, she is often seen with a cigarette, a key modern woman accessory, which 126

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

was still considered by many to be ‘unladylike’. Such ‘masculine’ behaviour made Darrieux a prominent example of la garçonne, rather like Monique L’Herbier, the protagonist of Margueritte’s novel La Garçonne (albeit in a much tamer way – as discussed in Chapter 2, the novel caused controversy when it was released in 1922 owing to its representation of an independent and promiscuous woman). While Annabella’s modern woman identity came mostly from her appearance, Darrieux’s also gained much of its strength from her performance style. As we have seen, her acting was often spontaneous and energetic, qualities that were well suited to her depiction of a lively jeune fille, particularly when she has one of her tantrums. When seen as part of her modern woman persona, this behaviour takes on new meaning, becoming more than just the obnoxious act of a spoilt girl. Instead, it highlights her desire for freedom and independence. We shall see a number of instances of this when I go on to discuss Club de femmes and Un mauvais garçon. But one of the main ways that Darrieux’s independence (or desire for it) was emphasised was through her portrayal of characters who are in, or are looking for, some form of employment. In Abus de confiance and Un mauvais garçon, Darrieux is a lawyer, a traditionally male vocation, and in Quelle drôle de gosse! she is a stenographer, a common occupation for the modern woman – this is Joan Crawford’s job in Grand Hotel and Louise Brooks’s in Prix de beauté (Augusto Genina, 1930). Moreover, as a successful film star, Darrieux was also herself a high-profile working woman. Because Darrieux simultaneously embodied a naive young girl and a modern woman, her persona, like Annabella’s, contained internal tensions. Here it is worth remembering the comments made by the French lawyer quoted in Chapter 2 (pp. 48–49), who, by contrasting the modern woman with ‘young girls’, highlights the polarity of these two extremes of femininity. This tension was central to Darrieux’s significance and played a key role in the way she functioned in 1930s France, particularly during the Popular Front. To consider more closely her persona’s engagement with France at this time, I would now like to turn to a consideration of Club de femmes. 127

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Club de femmes: A Popular Front film In the summer of 1936, the newly elected Popular Front government was in the process of carrying out extensive social reform and assisting the nation’s striking workers to reach favourable agreements with their employers on wages and hours of work – the huge strike-wave, which has been described as creating a joyous, carnival atmosphere, would be the biggest in France until May 1968. While Club de femmes was released in Paris on 20 June 1936, putting it on cinema screens at the very height of this moment, it is not a film that would conventionally be considered to have much relevance to the Popular Front. Focusing on a women’s hostel that has been established to protect young women living in Paris, which is run by Mme Fargeton (Eve Francis) and her friend Dr Aubrey (Valentine Tessier), the film tells a number of parallel stories: one is a mostly comical narrative following Claire’s (Darrieux) attempts to smuggle her boyfriend Robert (Raymond Galle) into the hostel, which has a strict no-men policy; another centres upon Alice (Else Argal), who falls in love with one of the other women in the hostel, Juliette (Josette Day); there is also a story dealing with Greta’s (Betty Stockfeld) exploitation by a pimp, and subsequent relationship with a very old, extremely wealthy aristocrat; in addition, running through all these stories is a narrative focusing on the hostel’s switchboard operator and her attempts to trick residents into working for the aforementioned pimp. As I outlined in the Introduction, scholars who have discussed cinema in relation to the Popular Front have most frequently considered those films that deal directly with issues relating to the movement. Renoir’s work from this period is considered to be particularly important because he pursues explicit political agendas, depicting narratives of class struggle and national unity. The belief that Renoir was particularly ‘in tune’ with the period’s politics is also fuelled by his status as the auteur of the period. His ‘genius’ is seen to authenticate his perspective on the events; he is seen as having a special connection with how things really were. Here I would like to briefly mention another film that has been discussed in relation to the Popular Front, 128

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

which is Julien Duvivier’s La Belle équipe, a film that tells the story of five friends who win the lottery and decide to use their winnings to set up a bar on the banks of the Marne. On this film Andrew has written: Because it hedges its bets by whispering, yet never quite claiming, political themes, La Belle équipe represents the ambiguous roles films could play in this period, indicating along the way that its social pertinence lies less in such themes than in the authenticity of its particularly engaging ‘spectacle of the proletariat.’27 Andrew argues that the film was ‘relevant’ to the Popular Front period because of its use of key themes, such as ‘collective ventures, and the ideology of “fresh air”’,28 and its realism, which enables the film to capture the details of the period. Moreover, drawing on the work of Vincendeau, he asserts that Gabin is central to the film’s Popular Front vision, as a star who created earnest and authentic depictions of the French working-class male: ‘When Greene calls such imaginary dramas “realistic,” he crudely preempts Vincendeau’s more subtle belief that Gabin is absolutely “relevant” to the tone of the Popular Front, to its particular imaginary.’29 As the starting point for his analysis, Andrew refers to an article written by Georges Sadoul entitled ‘Apropos Several Recent Films’, which was published in November 1936 and which discusses and praises the realism of La Belle équipe as well as that of Le Crime de Monsieur Lange. Interestingly, the article also refers to Club de femmes, which Sadoul briefly compares with La Belle équipe. For Sadoul, the main point of comparison is that both films have ‘A concern for the real and the conflict between the artist’s dream and social reality’.30 Indeed, both centre upon the creation of ‘utopias’, away from life’s harsh realities (a bar in La Belle équipe; a glamorous hostel in Club de femmes). In arguing for the importance of Club de femmes in relation to the Popular Front I shall consider other similarities with La Belle équipe. First, however, it is important to note the separate judgements Sadoul gave of the two films: while he is complementary about La Belle équipe, he refers to Club de femmes as ‘mediocre’.31 129

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To some extent this evaluation is surprising, considering some of the film’s unconventional elements. For instance, because of the hostel’s no-men policy, men are almost completely absent from the film and the one significant male character, Robert, is seen only in women’s clothing, which he wears in order to sneak unnoticed into the hostel. Club de femmes also features an explicitly lesbian character and includes scenes of female nudity. In the American version, because of the strict Hays Code, both of these elements had to be cut; in France the film was also considered shocking, with criticism being directed at its representation of ‘amoral’ young women.32 So, why ‘mediocre’? In part this may be because Club de femmes was written and directed by Jacques Deval, who, as a prominent boulevard theatre playwright, was certainly not one of the ‘cinematic’ directors, such as Duvivier and Renoir, whom Sadoul celebrated. In addition, while Sadoul doesn’t expand upon his dismissal of the film, a passage from the same article, a few paragraphs earlier, indicates that his evaluation would also have had much to do with his misogynistic dislike of ‘women’s films’: Some have reproached Jenny for its subject. And undoubtedly they’re not wrong. An aging woman who is holding on to her last lover and whom fate has given her own daughter as a rival is a typical subject of tragedy that threatens to turn into melodrama, if only the heroines were transported into the milieu of pimps and barkeeps on Montmartre. Yet no one, despite a certain family resemblance in subject and milieu, would dream of comparing Jenny to Rigolboche, a pitiful balloon inflated for an old hag like Mistinguett.33 Sadoul’s comments are representative of a more general tendency of critics of the period to side-line films dealing with women and women’s issues in favour of the ‘aesthetic masterpieces’ made by auteurs, which by and large deal with male concerns. Like his earlier film, La Bandera, Duvivier’s La Belle équipe is another ‘men’s story’. While it may present a vision of workingclass unity at the time of the Popular Front, it is another vision that excludes women. As I discussed in Chapter 1, the film’s main 130

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

female character, Gina (Viviane Romance), is a divisive force who comes between two members of the group, Jean (Jean Gabin) and Charles (Charles Vanel) and, according to Andrew, in the original version her perfume actually drives the former to kill the latter!34 However, the Popular Front was not just a union of men; as I discussed in the last chapter, the period was also a moment of emancipation for women and one that witnessed a destabilisation of traditional notions of gender. In this respect, as we shall see, Club de femmes was a timely film. By focusing almost entirely on women, Club de femmes is symptomatic of women’s increased visibility at this time. Aside from a few scenes with Robert, the film goes out of its way to avoid including men, who, when they are shown, are reduced to mere fragments, such as voices, shadows, or parts of their bodies: in one scene a male character is portrayed through a close-up of his hand holding a cigar (signifying his wealth and power) in combination with an off-screen voice. This is especially interesting when we consider how this reverses the traditional way in which men and women are represented in films. Conventionally it is the female body that is fragmented in order to isolate and fetishise fragments of the woman for erotic spectacle.35 Although this is not completely reversed in Club de femmes – the men are not eroticised, whereas the women who constantly appear in swimming costumes possibly are (I’ll return to this) – it does give women greater embodiment and wholeness in contrast to the fragmented and far less significant men. The effect of this is that women are brought to the centre in much the same way as the working class are in Gabin’s films: ‘Gabin is taken from margin to center in the course of these films, replicating in the process the social aspirations of the Popular Front that would bring the neglected and alienated lower-class individual into the center of culture.’36 While La Bandera and La Belle équipe privilege the creation of male communities, to the complete exclusion of women, in Club de femmes, by bringing women to the centre, the reverse happens. A female community is represented through numerous ensemble shots of the women of the hostel, existing as a harmonious unity, as well as through various incidents that pull them together. These include an outbreak of a fire in 131

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the hostel, which they all work as one to extinguish. Also, when Claire confides in a friend that she is pregnant we are presented with a humorous depiction of the closeness of the women in the hostel – the news rapidly spreads through the building in moments. Such an image of group harmony has clear parallels with the situation for women at this time. As discussed in the last chapter, many women were involved in marches and strikes and were experiencing their first real taste of group involvement and collective action. In addition to bringing women to the fore, Club de femmes presents the young women living in the hostel as possessing many characteristics of the independent, modern woman. In part this is because of their surroundings: the hostel is a bright, white, Art Deco building, complete with a gym and a swimming pool, which was described by Ciné-miroir as ‘super-modern’.37 Here the women live out the modern, healthy lifestyles that were promoted in the period’s women’s magazines, as well as by the Popular Front government, which actively encouraged people to participate in more sport and ‘physical culture’. Similarly, the swimming pool and gym also stress the importance of leisure, another key theme in women’s magazines and for the Popular Front, which introduced laws to bring about a forty-hour working week and paid vacations. One of the most ‘modern’ elements of the film is its depiction of Alice, a character who is, unambiguously, a lesbian. While this is not overtly mentioned by any of the characters, her sexuality is clear from her very first scene. We see her sat by the side of the swimming pool, reading a book, when she notices Juliette swimming, badly. Initially this amuses her, but as Juliette climbs from the pool, Alice’s gaze becomes more explicitly encoded as erotic – her facial expression and the use of soft focus convey her desire. To some extent the film goes on to offer a positive vision of lesbianism, a view suggested in the sleeve notes to the BFI release of the film: Most startling – and certainly providing one of the film’s deepest pleasures then and now – must be the matter-of-fact presentation of a principal character who is a strong and non-stereotypical 132

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

lesbian – and, most shocking of all, one who actually survives to tell the tale. Else Argal’s Alice is a tragic role – but rather for the generally unrequited nature of her love, than for her sexuality itself. Aware that she is ‘different’ but not sure why and unable to comprehend ‘her own nature’, Alice starts out well as a dignified and graceful character; if only future directors had followed Deval’s lead with this portrayal, lesbians in cinema might have been a very different breed.38 Intelligent, attractive and compassionate, Alice is certainly a ‘dignified and graceful character’, or at least she is to begin with. However, on learning that Juliette has been manipulated and pimped with the assistance of the switchboard girl, she poisons and kills the latter. One must thus take issue with the Lesbian Film Guide, which claims: ‘Our lesbian is the highly moral and chivalrous Alice’ (my italics).39 Through her malevolence, Alice is not as positive an image of lesbianism as it first appears, even though she kills the film’s villain. Because of her modern woman persona, Darrieux’s very presence in the film was significant in further generating its progressive vision of femininity. We can see from the poster how central she was to the film’s identity, with her name appearing above the title and her image being placed in the centre, occupying the largest amount of space (Figure 15). Also, within the film her character displays many modern woman characteristics. She is one of the strongest, most intelligent and assertive characters, and she has a job, which she is clearly good at (she quickly rises up the ranks as a dancer at the Folies Bergère). Her dominance over her boyfriend, Robert, is central to her characterisation as a modern woman and is a key part of the film’s disruption of conventional attitudes towards gender. For one thing, Darrieux’s boyfriend is much younger than the ‘fatherfigures’ she forms a romantic couple with in other films, such as characters played by Albert Préjean and Charles Vanel. She also has greater control of their relationship: she persistently bosses him around and she – and not he – masterminds the various schemes to smuggle him into her room. Most significantly, his male power and authority is diminished when Claire dresses 133

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Figure 15 Club de femmes poster

him as a woman and at one point commandingly shepherds him into the hostel’s lobby: Claire: Head down, hide your feet. Robert: Hide them where? 134

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Claire:

I don’t know, but they stick out. Let me park you. Keep your nose stuck in the notice-board. I’ll be back.

Later too she is depicted as the dominant figure in their relationship. In her room Robert is again feminised through his clothing, this time by wearing her pyjamas, which he has changed into from the dress. The determination of the film to explore the idea of role-reversal and possibly to suggest that Robert enjoys his experience of transvestism is clear from the fact that it would have been quite easy for him to bring some male clothing to change into after his infiltration of the hostel. In a conversation they have in her room, Claire again takes the male role, in part because he adopts the ‘weaker’ position as they embrace, with him leaning on her chest, but also because the film reverses the stereotypical notion that men are rational and women are irrational: as Robert makes the juvenile claim that he will ‘sort out’ her guardian so that they can get married (machismo which is greatly undermined by his attire), Darrieux is more reasonable, stating that they will have to wait until circumstances change. Because the supposed irrationality of women was one of the main reasons why women were not given the vote, even by the Popular Front government, this emphasis on Claire’s intelligence is significant.40 Claire’s emancipation is also expressed through her conflict with the hostel’s main authority figure, Mme Fargeton, who is to some extent an empowered female character, fighting against male victimisation of women, but who also expresses many conventional patriarchal views. For instance, her determination to keep women away from the ‘dangers of men’ indicates that she sees women as fragile and in need of protection from sexual temptation. She clearly holds the belief that young women should be pure and ‘angelic’, and at one point, on receiving flowers from some of the hostel’s residents, exclaims: ‘Such angels … An aviary of angels.’ Claire challenges these notions of femininity through her rebellious behaviour, particularly her attempts to smuggle Robert into the hostel. Following their first failure, she implements a new plan, which is to pretend to hurt herself by somersaulting to the ground from a high bar in the gym and then to get Robert to enter 135

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the hostel by pretending to be her doctor. Here we are struck by the elaborate nature of her plan, which conveys to us her enthusiasm, her joie de vivre. This aligns her further with the Popular Front zeitgeist: descriptions of the period frequently refer to the pervasive mood of optimism and the pleasure people gained from the feeling that they had begun to take control of their destinies. For audience members who remembered Darrieux’s performance in Dédé (René Guissart, 1935), a year earlier, it would have been clear that her expressions of spontaneity and empowerment were relevant to a climate of strikes and collective action. In this film, Darrieux, working as a manager of a shoe shop, learns of a strike in a shoe factory. Occupying the centre of the frame, a position that enhances her power, she announces that the shop must close, before shouting, with energy and charisma, and to the approval of her female co-workers, ‘long live the strike!’. As this indicates, Darrieux’s performance style is central to her embodiment of the Popular Front spirit. This is also evident in an earlier scene in the film in which Claire is waiting for Robert, who, this time, is supposed to enter the hostel dressed as a delivery boy. However, a woman who works at the hostel brings Claire the delivery, a package, and states: ‘I caught the delivery boy sneaking up.’ She asks Claire if she would like him to be tipped, to which Claire angrily replies: ‘No, he’s too stupid!’ She slams the door shut and, in response to her friend’s observation that the plan was a ‘flop’, stamps on the package and kicks it across the room. While this outburst is tame by Darrieux’s standards (we have already seen her huge tantrum in Katia; in Quelle drôle de gosse! she bites one of her colleagues in a fight and viciously scratches the face of Lucien Baroux), it is still a loss of control and an expression of her potentially violent temper. Such moments, which were frequent in her films, were similar to Gabin’s famous violent rages. Describing these moments in his films, Vincendeau writes: ‘They indicate a loss of control which, in our culture, also signifies the authentic: since he can’t help it, it really is “him”.’41 As with Gabin, Darrieux’s expressions of anger highlight her authenticity, a ‘star quality’ that is central to her significance at the time of the Popular Front. Dyer suggests that, although conceptions of what constitutes the authentic will change in 136

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

time, we can isolate some of the ‘reigning notions’ that define it: ‘Authenticity is established or constructed in media texts by the use of markers that indicate lack of control, lack of premeditation and privacy.’42 Darrieux’s spontaneous acting style, a product of her direct entry into the cinema, often conveys a ‘lack of control’ and absence of ‘premeditation’, something that is particularly evident during her tantrums and outbursts, such as in the scene discussed above. Also, in contrast to the theatrical stars, who would often be shown in public spaces, Darrieux frequently occupies the private sphere – for instance, the above scene takes place in her room in front of only her friend – which enhances her authenticity: the way that people behave in their private space is often considered to be more of an expression of their innate selves than the personas they project in the public world. Because these features were further stressed by publicity that discussed her bad temper, spontaneity and lack of control (see p. 124), authenticity is created by the apparent ‘perfect fit’43 between her on-screen and off-screen persona, indicating that this is how she really is. Moreover, for both Gabin and Darrieux the ‘outburst’ is related to their frustration at their marginalised place within society: Gabin’s stems from his low class position and Darrieux’s comes from her lack of power as a woman. Consequently, in Club de femmes we can see how Darrieux authenticates women’s desire for freedom, increasing the validity of female empowerment at the time of the Popular Front. While the extreme and at times surprising modernity of Club de femmes puts it in line with many of the progressive ideas of the moment, it was in other ways more conservative. As I have discussed, the Popular Front period was ideologically conflicted, with reactionary discourses on femininity essentially maintaining their hegemony. Here it is first of all worth noting that, while the protagonists of La Belle équipe are to some extent in control of their utopian vision, the main female characters in Club de femmes are all benefiting from charity and, as a consequence, must follow the establishment’s strict rules. Club de femmes also draws freely upon a wide range of female stereotypes. Juliette is a quintessential ‘dumb blonde’, who is unable to do her spelling or realise the nature of Alice’s affection towards her, and in opposition to the 137

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‘angelic’ girls, praised by Mme Fargeton, the scheming switchboard operator is a classic wicked and duplicitous woman. As she sits moving wires around to connect calls, she even resembles a spider, weaving her web to catch the girls who live in the hostel. Throughout the film, women are also eroticised as objects of the male gaze. Burch and Sellier write: ‘Many ultra-modern young girls are enclosed in a sort of secular convent screened from the gaze of men, and are therefore more likely to expose themselves “spontaneously” to that of the man-camera.’44 Indeed, one of the ironies of the film (or part of its cunning) is that the constant reminders that men are not allowed to enter the hostel potentially intensify the voyeuristic pleasure for male audience members who break this rule simply by watching the film. While the images of women swimming, exercising and living independent lives at the hostel depict a vision of modern womanhood, they also present opportunities for female objectification; we see many women in swimming costumes and as mentioned the film even contains moments of nudity. Similarly, although the first scene of Darrieux dancing in her room highlights her vitality and desire to succeed in her profession, we are introduced to her through a slow tilt up her long legs, a camera movement that is designed to eroticise her body. Another way in which the film endorses traditional ideas of femininity is through its suggestion that what women really want most from life is love and romance, rather than emancipation. In fact, the theme of romance turns out to be a useful way of resolving some of the film’s ideological conflicts. For example, towards the end of the film Greta becomes engaged to a very old, wealthy man. However, she finally decides that she wants to marry for love and romance and not money or security. Consequently, she is presented as being empowered in her rejection of the establishment’s view that young women should marry older men; and yet she is still essentially subscribing to the notion that what women ultimately want is romance. Similarly, by finally smuggling Robert into her room, Claire is victorious in her attack on Mme Fargeton’s authority, but at the same time what Claire achieves is essentially what patriarchy wants. Drawing on elements of Darrieux’s idealistic and vulnerable jeune fille persona, Claire succeeds in attaining 138

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

the romantic fulfilment she seeks with Robert. In addition, at the end of the film she has a baby, thus choosing domestic femininity and motherhood over her exciting modern independence, something that would have supported the period’s pronatalist policies (which, despite their conservatism, received continuing support from the Popular Front government). Indeed, the final shot of Claire with her baby is an image that celebrates motherhood, representing it as natural and beautiful, with her wide-eyed expression conveying her continuing innocence. Although Mme Fargeton is initially angry with Claire, calling her a ‘wretched girl’, she quickly calms down, particularly when, in a final moment of comedy, Dr Aubry says: ‘You can’t object, anyway; it’s a girl.’ Club de femmes is a clear product of the ideologically conflicted period of the Popular Front. On the one hand, it maintains many of the period’s conservative attitudes to women, ideas that reinforced unequal relations between the sexes in the broader social sphere. On the other hand, it encapsulates the community, emancipation and sheer joie de vivre experienced by many women (and men) at this time. As I have shown, the film gains much of its meaning by drawing upon Darrieux’s two-sided persona – the modern woman and the jeune fille – which highlights the importance of these elements to her engagement with the broader social context of the Popular Front, but also epitomises the inherent tensions in the Popular Front’s approach to women. I would now like to consider the relationship between these elements in more detail. As discussed earlier, Darrieux attained popularity in drama and comedy, both of which played important roles in the development of her career. As we shall see, the tensions within her persona function differently in these separate genres, generating diverse pleasures and ideological effects.

A star of comedy Although Darrieux starred in some popular dramas, such as Abus de confiance, which I will consider shortly, the genre she was most commonly associated with was comedy. She had started her career in comic parts, progressing from supporting roles in her 139

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films with Préjean to leading roles in her later films under the management of Decoin. The one film she made in Hollywood in the 1930s, The Rage of Paris, was also a comedy, further emphasising the importance of this genre to her identity and to the nature of her cinematic stardom. It is worth beginning by highlighting that some of her comedies had links with the boulevard theatre that I discussed in Chapter 1. For example, Quelle drôle de gosse! was written by Yves Mirande, a prominent playwright, Club de femmes was, as we have seen, written by Jacques Deval, also a playwright, and Mademoiselle ma mère was originally a play, written by Louis Verneuil – in fact, Gaby Morlay appeared in the play in 1920, alongside Alerme, who is also in the Darrieux film. It is not surprising that at numerous points the film’s theatrical origins are evident, with many of the scenes taking place in interiors and filmed in the wide shots characteristic of filmed theatre. However, as we shall see, Darrieux’s comedies had other key influences, and even these films that were based on plays or the work of playwrights were transformed into a different type of cinema, to a substantial degree through her star persona. As discussed, Darrieux was different in many ways from Gaby Morlay and the stars of boulevard comedy considered in Chapter 1. She was younger, worked almost entirely in the cinema, spoke with a more ‘neutral’ accent, and possessed a more ‘cinematic’ style of acting. But one of the most important differences between Darrieux and these stars is that she would frequently play roles that were simultaneously comic and romantic, a synthesis that is central to such films as Quelle drôle de gosse!, Mademoiselle ma mère and Un mauvais garçon. By contrast, the female theatrical stars specialising in comedy would usually exist outside the central romance of their films. For example, as we have seen, in Hôtel du Nord the comic and the romantic are divided between two female performers: Arletty provides the comedy, Annabella supplies the romance. It is illustrative that later in Arletty’s career, when she takes the romantic lead in Les Enfants du paradis, she is no longer the comic character. If such a division between the romantic and the comic was common in the cinema of the 1930s, how did Darrieux become one of the first exceptions to the rule? This has much to do with 140

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

the strength of her modern woman persona, which assumes great importance in her comedy films. Here her acting relies on a higher degree of spontaneity and energy, which forcefully conveys her desire to be free from constraints. For example, Mademoiselle ma mère begins with one of Darrieux’s (as Jacqueline) famous tantrums, which is a response to her father’s (Marcel Simon) attempts to arrange a marriage for her. She screams, stamps her feet, angrily folds her arms and refuses to stay still for more than a fraction of a second. She also sulks and pouts – a key aspect of her ideolect, which recurs time and again in her comedies to express her dissatisfaction (Figure 16). To some extent the tantrum undermines her by signifying her childishness. However, because it is an expression of her desire for independence from her father’s control, instead of something more trivial, we can interpret her outburst, like the outburst in Club de femmes, as a more empowering moment. Darrieux’s confrontations with men play an important role in her comedies, with the ensuing debates and verbal sparring generating much of their humour. Whereas Robert in Club de

Figure 16

Danielle Darrieux in Mademoiselle ma mère 141

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femmes is completely submissive, many of these films feature a much stronger male character who is a more even match for her in these conflicts. This is the case, for example, in Quelle drôle de gosse! (Albert Préjean), Mademoiselle ma mère (Pierre Brasseur), and Un mauvais garçon (Henri Garat). Such conflicts are significant not only because they generate humour; they are also central to the ideological operation of these films. In Mademoiselle ma mère Jacqueline’s confrontations with Georges (Brasseur) are important in this way. In the first scene of the film she declares that she will marry the next person she sees, in order to avoid her father finding a husband for her. This person is Albert (Alerme) and true to her word she marries him. However, her plan is not completely irrational. She uses the freedom from her father’s parental authority to embark upon a hedonistic, modern lifestyle: she goes drinking in cocktail bars, has a number of boyfriends and wears elaborate modern garments. Most significantly, while she is on her honeymoon with Albert, she arranges for their conjugal apartment to be decorated in an extravagantly modern way: there is a circle theme in the hallway, the rooms are bright white and one of the doors opens vertically. Albert’s lack of control over her, and difficulty in adapting to the modernity she represents, is illustrated when she switches on her new revolving bed with him sat on it. As it spins, he looks confused and genuinely scared; Jacqueline just laughs. But although Albert is unable to control her and curb her excesses, his son Georges is more determined. Concerned about the family name and the way that Jacqueline is making a mockery of his father, he sets about ‘taming’ her. Consequently, in contrast to her individualistic modernity, he represents order, family and tradition. Inevitably their verbose animosity develops into love and Jacqueline annuls her marriage to Albert and marries Georges instead. Darrieux’s comedies had much in common with the Hollywood screwball comedy that was proving popular in cinemas at this time. In fact, the opening scene of Mademoiselle ma mère even appears to be making direct references to a classic instance of this genre, It Happened One Night (Frank Capra, 1934). One of the first shots of this film focuses on the quite portly 142

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

Alexander Andrews (Walter Connolly) standing on a yacht in a sailor’s outfit talking to one of his employees. A few shots into Mademoiselle ma mère there is a similar image of the comparably well-built Albert, sat on his yacht, also wearing sailors’ clothing, also talking to an employee. More importantly, in both films the opening scenes depict disputes between wealthy fathers and their daughters (Darrieux in Mademoiselle ma mère; Claudette Colbert in It Happened One Night) because in each the father is exerting more control over the daughter’s life than the daughter would like. The likeness between Darrieux’s comedies and Hollywood screwball comedy is even more striking when we consider her resemblance to Katharine Hepburn, a key female star of these films. Like Darrieux, Hepburn would frequently play roles that were both comic and romantic – as is the case in such classics as Bringing up Baby (Howard Hawks, 1938) and Holiday (George Cukor, 1938) – and was also a prominent example of the modern woman. She possessed the tall, slim physique and youthful, glamorous features characteristic of this type, and often appeared in films and publicity wearing masculine clothing. In fact, in an article referred to earlier, entitled ‘Tailleurs d’hiver’,45 which features a picture of Darrieux wearing a jacket and tie, there is also an image of Hepburn in similarly androgynous clothing. Moreover, both stars would frequently play bourgeois daughters, who, as modern women, would revolt against the middle-class authority of their parents. For example, in Stage Door (Gregory La Cava, 1937) Terry Randall (Hepburn) defies her wealthy father’s wishes by entering into a career as an actress. One of the main ways in which Hepburn asserted her modern woman persona, like Darrieux, was through her performance style, which was spontaneous and energetic. At one point in Stage Door she barges into the office of Anthony Powell (Adolphe Menjou), a powerful producer, to criticise him for cancelling his meeting with one of the female actors she lives with. She slams the door and strides towards his desk, asking ironically with her ‘clipped’ New England accent: ‘Are you the great Anthony Powell?’ Because confrontations like these were a common feature of Hepburn’s films and apparently of her off-screen life, she became known, like Darrieux, as a somewhat difficult woman. 143

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This was well publicised in France, as is illustrated by an article in Ciné-miroir entitled ‘Miss dynamite, Katherine [sic] Hepburn’: It is never without a certain apprehension, that in Hollywood, one talks of Katherine Hepburn. To write praise or criticism about Katie is a bit like manipulating an infinitely dangerous bomb, which can explode at the moment one least expects it!46 While this to some extent represented a progressive leap, showing Hepburn, like Darrieux, as a woman who was prepared to stand up for herself, it was often the case that the ensuing ‘tug-of-war’ between the sexes resulted in her character’s ultimate humiliation. During rehearsals for a play in Stage Door, Randall’s assertiveness is taken to such an extreme that she begins to be discredited. She makes clear her resentment at having to follow the instructions of, and receive criticism from, the play’s director and producer, who are horrified by the poor standard of her acting. She is presented as being simply too headstrong, making her behaviour appear to be more like that of a spoilt child. Similarly, in Darrieux’s films there are many moments in which her characters are humiliated, throwing her status as a strong modern woman into question. At one point in Mademoiselle ma mère, Georges goes to the bar where Jacqueline is drinking, drags her kicking and screaming to his car, and drives her back to her apartment. Initially she is aggressive, shouting and complaining, but after he stops her attempt to sneak back out, she returns to her room and weeps uncontrollably, before falling asleep on her revolving bed (which had previously symbolised her empowerment). This illustrates that below her modern woman sophistication she is still a young and immature girl. Furthermore, it highlights that Darrieux’s comedies rely not only upon her modern woman persona but also upon her jeune fille qualities. It is the tension between these two parts of her persona that enables the conflicts in the narrative to take shape and the humour to develop. To explore this further, I will consider Un mauvais garçon, a key example of Darrieux’s comedy.

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

Un mauvais garçon Unlike many of the films already considered, Un mauvais garçon has not been subject elsewhere to close academic attention, a neglect that undoubtedly stems from its place within a derided generic tradition – the light-hearted comedy. As a film that was released in 1936, and one that is explicitly concerned with the war of the sexes, Un mauvais garçon is another Darrieux Popular Front film. Its depiction of gender conflict involves not only discord within a male and female romantic couple but also antagonism between a father and his daughter. This begins with Jacqueline Serval (Darrieux) learning, to her and her parents’ delight, that she has passed her law degree. But whereas it is her ambition to use this to establish a legal practice, it is her father’s (Alerme) wish that she be married as soon as possible. Because of her protestations, which are supported by her mother, he makes a deal with her: he will support her financially for eighteen months while she attempts to become a lawyer, but if she has not succeeded within this time she must get married to a man of his choice. While this premise is far-fetched – in keeping with the genre – it encapsulates a genuine contemporary tension, as highlighted by Walton (from a longer quotation on p. 122): ‘Growing numbers of women seeking higher education and professional careers undermined the ideal of the bourgeois jeune fille.’47 This was particularly significant in 1936 because, as I have discussed, the Popular Front was a period in which older male authority was questioned and challenged. In Un mauvais garçon we are presented with a condensation of such public conflicts through a comic story of familial antagonism in the private sphere. Jacqueline is presented as an active modern woman from the very beginning of the film (one review even went so far as to describe her as a feminist):48 she gets a law degree, challenges her father’s authority through her aspirations to become a lawyer, is shown listening to jazz and smoking in her bedroom, and at many points in the film wears ‘masculine’ clothing – while working as a lawyer she wears a suit jacket and tie. In an early scene she is at the family dining table surrounded by potential suitors, gathered

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by her father, who are watching her as she prepares to blow out candles on a cake. One of them tells her that if she blows them all out in one go she will soon get married. She responds to this by intentionally blowing out just one. The scene finishes with an image of her mother smiling, emphasising that she sides with her daughter. Indeed, because the men her father has assembled for her are all exaggeratedly very old, the film appears to be criticising the practice of arranged marriage and of young women marrying men significantly older than them. One of the film’s most memorable depictions of Jacqueline as a modern woman occurs immediately after she is told she has been given her first client, Pierre Meynard (Henri Garat). Full of excitement, she exits her apartment and sets off in her car to go to have a meeting with him. The scene is significant, first of all, because it shows Jacqueline driving. As we have seen, many iconic images of the modern woman, such as the self-portrait of Tamara de Lempicka (Figure 6, p. 49), would depict her at the wheel of a car. Not only did this signify modernity by associating her with a modern form of transport, it also stressed her independence and freedom from domestic constraints. As Jacqueline drives through Paris, shots of her point of view, looking through the windscreen, capture the rapid movement and bustle of the Parisian streets, and shots of her face show her huge smile and energy, conveying the pleasure she is deriving from this moment of independence (Figure 17). This is expressed even further when she turns on the radio and sings along to the song that is playing. It was common for Darrieux to sing in her films, with other notable instances occuring in Mademoiselle Mozart (Yvan Noé, 1935), Quelle drôle de gosse! and Retour à l’aube. Aside from the latter example, a drama in which she sings a very melancholic tune, her musical numbers tend to be opportunities to emphasise her vitality and optimism, her joie de vivre. This is the case in Un mauvais garçon, in which she sings the following lyrics: I wouldn’t give up my place For a cannonball I wouldn’t give up my place It’s too good and I’ve struck gold 146

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

All my troubles fade away Hope is in my heart To everyone that passes I want to shout out my happiness.49 To some extent this strong image of modernity is undercut by elements of her trademark childishness. When one driver honks his horn at her, she sticks out her tongue in a juvenile way. However, on the whole, the journey captures the excitement and pleasure she derives from gaining control of her life. Such an image of optimism and freedom is symptomatic of women’s greater mobility and visibility during the Popular Front period. And yet, with a number of devices being used to undermine her, we are made aware that her status as a modern woman is somewhat tenuous. Earlier in the film, after her father makes his offer of supporting her for eighteen months, a caption states ‘seventeen months later’, which is followed by a shot of Jacqueline dressed in legal robes, making a passionate defence. We initially

Figure 17

Danielle Darrieux in Un mauvais garçon 147

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think that in the intervening period she has succeeded in her attempts to establish herself as a lawyer. However, as the camera tracks out and her mother starts to applaud, it is revealed that this is just role-play; she is merely practising in her office. Moreover, we learn that she has been doing this with fictional cases for the last seventeen months. In a subsequent scene she is mocked further when a man enters her office to discuss a conflict he is having with local residents about his dog, which is apparently urinating in the hallways of his apartment block. We, like Jacqueline, are given the impression that he is seeking her legal advice. Through her performance, Darrieux conveys Jacqueline’s control of this professional situation. She asks her potential client to sit down and offers him a drink. Then, straightening her jacket, she strides purposefully around her desk, sits down and leans forward, with her hands held together in an image of control. However, to her humiliation – which is heightened by her ‘posturing’ – it is revealed that the man actually just wants her to sign a petition. Again she is deflated in her attempts to become a lawyer. It is against this backdrop that the relationship between Jacqueline and Pierre gains much of its humour. As in her other comedies, she embodies the ideological opposite of the male lead: she represents modernity, law and order, and the bourgeoisie; Pierre, as the eponymous mauvais garçon (bad boy), represents the working class, crime and the continuity of traditional gender roles. These differences are important in setting up the initial hostility between the characters. Their first meeting, when Jacqueline visits him in his cell after she has been appointed to defend him, sets the tone of their relationship. On arriving, she attempts to establish herself as a conscientious and capable lawyer by displaying her professionalism. Striding into the prison block wearing smart clothing and holding a briefcase, she first of all notifies the guards with self-assurance that she needs to talk to Pierre in his cell. When she learns that she must meet Pierre alone, she is momentarily apprehensive, before lifting her head and confidently pacing into his cell. However, although her assertive behaviour gives her credibility, she is once again undermined, this time by Pierre who, once she has told him that she is his defence, looks at her and laughs uncontrollably. When he then tells her more 148

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

seriously that he will not allow her to defend him, her confidence disappears and she sits down and cries. Pierre finally agrees to let her represent him and she successfully secures his release. Following this, the film progresses with a classic gender war between the two characters. When they leave the prison, he sets off on his own, telling her that he does not want to be seen with her as it may damage his criminal reputation. As he walks away we see Jacqueline with an expression that indicates that she has just had a mischievous idea: to his embarrassment, she follows him in her car, honking its horn, noisily reiterating her offer of a lift. Throughout the film there are a number of moments like this, in which one character carries out some form of subtle attack against the other in an effort to annoy and undermine them. Jacqueline also establishes her power over Pierre when she employs him as her cleaner, making him perform a traditionally female task, while she conducts a professional, ‘male’ existence. However, despite her ‘superior’ position (socially, intellectually, professionally and morally), Pierre does not appear to suffer from any insecurity; his behaviour suggests that in his eyes he is superior, simply because he is male. The film’s poster is revealing, depicting Jacqueline in a more powerful position, looking down on Pierre who, with his hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face, seems perfectly self-assured. Eventually they fall in love, with her resigned to the loss of her career and deciding that she will instead try to enjoy her last few days with him before the wedding her father has arranged for her. In her discussion of the Hollywood screwball comedy, Tina Olsin Lent points out that one of the main features of the genre was that it showed men and women enjoying a fun relationship: ‘The “fun morality” advocated fun as a new obligation, and defined too little fun as something to be feared; one could not have enough fun, and it even became part of work.’50 This is also the case in Un mauvais garçon, with Jacqueline and Pierre’s romantic relationship presented as playful and at times anarchic. In one scene late in the film, depicting Jacqueline as ‘one of the boys’, she wears his hat, is smoking a cigarette and is drinking, while playing cards with him and his disreputable friends (Figure 18). On the one hand, this highlights Jacqueline’s capitulation to Pierre’s worldview; 149

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Figure 18

Henri Garat and Danielle Darrieux in Un mauvais garçon

on the other hand, it shows her engaging in the fun that men are allowed, but that is denied to women of her class. Similarly, the ‘fun’ of their relationship is emphasised through the few musical numbers that bring their true feelings to the fore, effacing their surface hostility. At one point they sing a duet of Je ne donnerais pas ma place on opposite sides of her office door (though neither is aware the other is participating). Their jubilant song shows that their animosity towards each other is only an appearance; it is part of a game they are playing. Disguising their true feelings for each other with a display of competitive behaviour is part of their courtship process. While most of the film depicts a more or less equal relationship, with each character gaining supremacy at different times, in the end Pierre has the upper hand. In the penultimate scene, which takes place at a reception at which Jacqueline is to meet her future husband, there is a narrative twist: we learn that her father has arranged all along for her to marry Pierre (who is not a working-class mauvais garçon but a member of the bourgeoisie). 150

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

To some extent this can be viewed positively as it means that Jacqueline has in some sense, by falling in love with him, chosen her husband for herself. However, it also shows that despite the illusion of independence, she has been completely under her father’s control, making her the foolish victim of a huge prank. Although she is initially angry and storms out of the reception, she quickly sees the funny side of it. The final shot, of their wedding, shows that she has now happily accepted her ‘proper’ position as a wife; dressed in a bridal gown, she looks adoringly at Pierre and kisses him, as the film fades to black. Within the context of the Popular Front, such a resolution expresses a desire to reinstate the male authority that had been undermined in the socio-political sphere. The fact that men get the better of Darrieux would have been reassuring to many. However, despite its conservative narrative resolution, the indepth portrayal of Jacqueline’s aspirations and her regular assertions of power over Pierre constitute many of the film’s most memorable sequences. To some extent this is because it was a Darrieux star vehicle. Although Garat was a big star in the early 1930s, his popularity was declining around this time. Moreover, the film demonstrates once again the importance of Darrieux’s energetic performance style: her rapid movements and ear-splitting vocal assertiveness convey, with visceral immediacy, the potential pleasures of mobility and empowerment. So while she does not have the last word – as in most of her comedies in the 1930s – she certainly has the loudest.

A star of drama As has been outlined above, one of the main interventions that Henri Decoin made in Darrieux’s career was that he encouraged her to appear in dramas. Although these films represent a smaller part of her cinematic output during the decade than her comedies, they constitute a number of her most famous and popular films. In particular, Mayerling, Katia and Abus de confiance were among the top five films of 1936, 1937 and 1938, respectively.51 Also, Darrieux’s move into drama played an important role later in her 151

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career. Among her most celebrated films are three postwar melodramas directed by Max Ophüls: La Ronde (1950), Le Plaisir (1952) and Madame de … (1953). However, the importance of Darrieux’s dramatic films of the 1930s goes further. Within these works key aspects of her persona, considered above, are articulated in a way that generates pleasures and ideological effects that are unique to her dramatic films. Many of Darrieux’s dramas were made by directors who specialised in making films that were not in the filmed theatre tradition. In Katia she was directed by Maurice Tourneur, who had worked for a number of years in Hollywood, and she made Mayerling with Anatole Litvak, who would soon be going to Hollywood himself. Litvak’s emphasis on the ‘cinematic’ is clear from his opposition to filmed theatre, something that has been discussed by Alastair Phillips: Anatole Litvak argued that ‘real cinema’ should circumvent the pull of ‘filmed theatre’ through its attention to ‘light, rhythm and images’. ‘In Coeur de lilas, my cast only speak when the situation demands,’ he commented. ‘I simply want to make cinema; nothing more, nothing less.’52 As a highly photogenic performer, capable of understated acting, Darrieux was very appealing to such directors. While this tended to result in her portrayal of a passive form of femininity, it should be noted that to some extent her dramas contain elements of the rebellious behaviour that we have seen in Club de femmes. For example, as discussed, in the opening scenes of Katia she uses her energetic performance style to convey Katia’s unruliness and rebellion against her father. Also, at a key point in Mayerling, Marie displays some of Darrieux’s characteristic assertiveness by refusing to bow to the Archduchess. However, despite beginning the film in an energetic way, she quickly becomes more passive and submissive, as discussed by Martin: ‘Once she has taken the bold step of giving herself completely to Rodolphe [sic], all her options have been exercised. Her life and her death are in his hands.’53 When Darrieux draws upon her lively performance style in her dramas, it is usually as a way of emphatically illustrating her 152

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

suffering, rather than conveying her agency. For example, at a number of points in Retour à l’aube, Anita (Darrieux) experiences moments of great anguish. In one scene the camera slowly tracks in to reveal that she is shaking and breathing heavily; then, she suddenly screams and runs to the door of the room she is in, knocking over a stack of chairs as she leaves. A number of men stop her and as they force her to sit down we see her in close-up, holding her face with both hands. In such moments, the audience is able to enjoy the energy of Darrieux’s performance style, but with it being put to more dramatic narrative ends and more conservative ideological ends, with such scenes stressing female hysteria and vulnerability over agency and empowerment. Despite these moments of energetic performance, Darrieux’s acting in her dramas is usually more restrained. In general these narratives revolve around men and the problems they encounter in their public roles, with Darrieux adopting a more passive position. Although there are more complex examples (most notably the Decoin films: Abus de confiance and Retour à l’aube), this is certainly the case in some of her other famous dramas such as Volga en flammes, Mayerling, Port-Arthur (Nicolas Farkas, 1936) and Katia. In these she functions in relation to the needs of the male protagonist, providing the sincerity and beauty that will inspire him to achieve greatness. The opening scenes of Mayerling show how Archduke Rudolph feels trapped by his responsibilities and that he is unhappy with the inauthenticity of life in the royal court. This is heightened when early in the film he gets married against his wishes in order to fulfil his royal duties. Throughout the film Boyer uses his theatrical acting to convey Rudolph’s intense anguish, with him often breaking into a rage of bad temper. Within this context, Darrieux’s Marie offers escape: because of her jeune fille characteristics and the naturalness of her performance style, she is depicted as naive, simple and unaffected, and thus in stark contrast to the inauthentic people who frequent the royal court. In short, Darrieux’s dramas tend to emphasise her passive femininity more than her active, modern qualities. However, in the dramas directed by Decoin – Retour à l’aube and Abus de confiance – the dramatic medium is used for a more in-depth exploration 153

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of her persona and its internal tensions. This is a reflection of the fact that they were more thoroughly conceived of as Darrieux star vehicles. I shall now turn to one of these films, Abus de confiance, to consider this further. Abus de confiance Abus de confiance tells the story of Lydia (Darrieux), a young, orphaned law student, who tricks a wealthy historian named Jacques Ferney (Charles Vanel) into believing she is his lost daughter, for financial gain. She is accepted by Jacques as who she says she is, but his wife Hélène (Valentine Tessier) is suspicious, believing the relationship to be a romantic one. To some extent, she is not wrong. In an illuminating analysis of the film’s gender dynamics, Burch and Sellier examine the nature of this relationship between Jacques, the film’s ‘father’, and Lydia, who is positioned as his ‘daughter’, arguing that the film is an important example of the decade’s quasi-incestuous narratives. They write: [Ferney and his wife] will witness [Lydia’s] début as a trial lawyer and place her in the hands of a worthy husband, who is nothing less than the father-figure’s double: his young assistant and professional disciple. Here, the choice of an actor of somewhat vapid charm (Pierre Mingand) renders the subtext singularly clear, already obvious in the film’s posters and credit sequence: the true couple is the ‘incestuous’ one, and this arranged marriage is a red herring designed to distract attention from the incest taboo.54 By asserting the power of the older male, the ‘incest’ subtext is one of the main ways in which Abus de confiance advances a patriarchal agenda. This is enhanced by the fact that Jacques is, according to Burch and Sellier’s terminology, a ‘confident father’: a powerful, though good-natured and generous patriarch. While this is to some extent undermined by his ‘guilty past’ (he abandoned a woman) and the fact that he is the unknowing victim of a deception (which his wife is aware of), it is a role that determines much of his significance. As a theatrically trained actor, Vanel is 154

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

ideal for this part, with him using his calm and measured acting style to create Jacques’s self-assured persona. Jacques’s authority also comes from his association with the pre-revolution Old Regime. In part this is because he lives in Versailles, an area associated with the former monarchy, but also it is because he is a historian of this period. The film’s endorsement of such a patriarch had political implications in Popular Front France: In 1936, the social meaning of this fable is clear: a certain emancipation of young middle class women was seen as inevitable, but in order to maintain patriarchal control it was necessary not only to reassert the authority of fathers, but to return to the mythic era of a benevolent monarchy, to a society ruled by an elite of clear thinking intellectuals (the objective allies of ‘honest workers’) who are both above sordid questions of money (associated with the petty bourgeoisie) and who know how to respect the honor of women. Without necessarily assuming that Decoin or his scriptwriter (Pierre Wolf) were readers of Action Française, all this certainly smacks of Maurras.55 In their analysis, Burch and Sellier also highlight Darrieux’s centrality to the film, particularly as Abus de confiance is one of the decade’s rare instances of a vehicle built around a female star: it almost exclusively follows her story and in the film’s promotional materials, she is consistently marketed as the main selling point, with Charles Vanel assuming a secondary position. Moreover, throughout the film she is given ‘star treatment’, appearing in numerous fashionable costumes and many glamorous close-ups. Her centrality to the film is important: because of the strength of her modern woman persona and her expression of female emancipation during the Popular Front, she makes a significant contribution to the film’s ideological outlook. However, in keeping with the duality of her identity, her role in the film is deeply contradictory. To some extent, Lydia is a vulnerable character, a trait that apparently drew Darrieux to the role: ‘“This subject pleases me”, Danielle Darrieux has declared, “for the first time, I will come to grips with life’s difficulties; for the first time, I will play a poor 155

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little girl.”’56 From the film’s opening scene, Lydia is placed firmly within the position of victim. To some extent, her hardships are the result of her poverty; she can no longer afford to eat or continue paying her rent. She is also a victim of men, many of whom seek to exploit her vulnerable financial position. For example, when she can no longer pay her rent, her male landlord implies that she can continue to live there if she submits to his sexual advances. Similarly, when she goes for an interview for a job as a secretary, which she desperately needs, the man she would be working for is interested only in her attractive appearance and whether she would be able to ‘work late’. When he forcefully grabs and starts to kiss her, she slaps him and runs from the office. Later, one of her male student friends, named Paul (Gilbert Gil), shows kindness towards her by taking her to a fair and buying her some food. However, he too reveals himself to be motivated by lust. After encouraging her to drink lots of alcohol in a restaurant, he takes her to a hotel that rents rooms by the hour. Realising his intentions, she runs away again, before collapsing in the street. In portraying the meekness and vulnerability of Lydia, Darrieux draws upon her ability to act with understatement and nuance. There are no examples of the energetic tantrums or difficult behaviour that we have seen in Katia and Club de femmes, and her surface calm is broken only on a few occasions: for instance, when she slaps the man at her interview, when she faints following Paul’s attempts to sleep with her and when she passionately defends a girl in court at the end of the film, a scene I will discuss in a moment. Her acting in the opening scenes establishes the register that she will adopt for the remainder of the film. As she walks from her grandmother’s funeral, a passer-by asks if she is okay. In the foreground of the shot she tilts her head and looks towards the floor for around fifteen seconds, making only a few minor movements, such as occasionally dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. Her vulnerability in this scene is also conveyed through her costume. As Vincendeau explains, ‘the black beret and plastic raincoat [are] emblems of the “lost girl”’.57 Darrieux’s low-key acting is particularly important in her scenes with the theatrically trained Vanel. This is evident, for example, in their first scene together, when Lydia visits Jacques to tell him that 156

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

she is his daughter. The short scene encapsulates the power relations between the characters. To some extent this is produced by the scene’s cinematography and features of its mise-en-scène: in Figure 19 we can see Jacques occupying the powerful position in the frame as he looks down at Lydia who appears trapped and enclosed by the high arms of the chair. His greater power and authority is also created by Vanel’s theatrical acting, which consists of slow and commanding movements, and self-assured and articulate speech. By contrast, Darrieux makes only the slightest movements and speaks softly. For most of the scene she has her head facing downwards, maintaining an image of submissiveness, which is enhanced by a few movements that convey her timidity: we are aware of her nervous breathing, the occasional sharp intake of breath and her darting, anxious eye movements. Consequently, the scene demonstrates the ideological significance of each performer’s acting style, with Vanel’s theatricality bringing power to Jacques and Darrieux’s nuance articulating Lydia’s humility.

Figure 19

Charles Vanel and Danielle Darrieux in Abus de confiance 157

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At other points in the film Darrieux’s low-key acting operates in unison with a ‘cinematic’ visual style. As Burch and Sellier highlight, in its early scenes the film has similarities with poetic realism.58 This is clear when we see Lydia returning to her room one evening. As she ascends the hotel’s staircase, the owner’s wife, concerned about Lydia’s inability to pay the rent, asks if she has been able to find a job. The high contrast lighting and bar-like shadows, features common to poetic realism, express the gloominess of Lydia’s situation and by suggesting ‘imprisonment’ comment upon the lack of options available to her. This is also enhanced by the unsettling effect created by the high angle of the shot, the twisting banister that cuts across the frame and the editing, which suddenly takes us to a lower angle, creating a momentary sense of disorientation and dissonance. Here, as Lydia stands motionless on the stairs, looking off-camera into the distance, with her head slightly tilted, the pessimistic visual style, combined with her melancholic expression, forcefully expresses the graveness of her predicament and the vulnerability of her character. However, because of her aspirations to become a lawyer, Lydia strongly examplifies the modern woman. While Darrieux generally performs in an understated way to signify Lydia’s vulnerability, near the film’s conclusion she gives a much more empowered performance, defending a girl in court. The details of this case are particularly important: the girl is being tried for a deception similar to the one that Lydia has committed. As a consequence, she is defending not only the girl but also herself. Moreover, the scene demonstrates her ability to perform the job to a high standard. Before the trial commences, the difficulty of her task is emphasised: we witness the court’s cold and severe judge pass a number of harsh sentences against women and children defendants. Filmed from below, he is presented as a commanding and unflinching upholder of the (patriarchal) law. By contrast, Lydia’s defence is advanced in a more compassionate and emotional register. She begins gently, remaining stationary and speaking softly, but as she continues she becomes more impassioned, increasing the speed and volume of her diction and moving to a more central position in the court. She powerfully clenches her hand into a fist, which she raises up and down, emphasising points in her speech, and as 158

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A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux

her performance intensifies and becomes more emotional, we see tears appearing in her eyes. Moved by her performance, the judge finds the girl not guilty. Lydia has not only won her first case, she has successfully spoken out for women in a court ruled by a stern patriarch. This scene is part of the film’s more general project of highlighting and exposing the inequalities that many French women faced. As Burch and Sellier discuss, Lydia is ‘exposed, with didactic rigor, to various forms of male aggression’.59 This is first evident in the film’s opening scenes, in which we see Lydia suffer from one hardship after another, often because of men. Moreover, the ending of the film further stresses her entrapment within patriarchy, especially when we consider it in relation to Darrieux’s persona as a modern woman. Jacques’s wife, Hélène, who finds out that Lydia is just pretending to be his daughter, tells her that she must continue to play this role, rather than upset him with the truth. So, despite wanting freedom and independence, Lydia’s punishment is to become more permanently trapped within the confines of the patriarchal family, adopting the role of daughter. Abus de confiance, then, is ideologically conflicted. As Burch and Sellier highlight, its celebration of a strong father, associated with the values of the Old Regime, supports the period’s conservative discourses, which were battling against the Popular Front’s ideas of progressive social change. From this perspective, the film puts the modern woman ‘back in her place’, re-energising the recently weakened patriarchy. I have extended Burch and Sellier’s analysis by focusing specifically on the contribution of Darrieux, particularly through a consideration of her dualistic persona and ‘dramatic’ performance style. On the one hand, by drawing on her jeune fille identity, which foregrounds her vulnerable appearance and nuanced acting, the strength of the patriarch is emphasised. On the other hand, aspects of Darrieux’s modern persona inject progressive discourses into the film. In particular, because Abus de confiance is a Darrieux-star vehicle, its narrative is presented from her character’s perspective: the film aligns us with – and thus encourages sympathy for – her desire for independence, exposes the obstacles women face in seeking such freedom and celebrates her ability to attain professional success in the courtroom. It 159

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shows that while women are capable of working in traditionally male jobs, such as law, they are disadvantaged by social conditions that are weighed heavily in men’s favour. Nevertheless, because she is not able to enact the pleasures of independence and rebellion in the joyful way she does in Club de femmes and Un mauvais garçon, we can see that the dramatic genre to a certain extent limits and constrains the more progressive dimension of her persona. At the beginning of this chapter, I disputed Crisp’s claim that Darrieux was not a real star. While she did indeed lack the mystery of a star like Garbo, numerous facets of her persona gave her undoubted star qualities. Like Annabella, she possessed cinematic glamour, which made her distinct from the period’s theatrical stars. She also realised new possibilities for cinematic stardom: her fresh cinematic acting made her a mobile, energetic and authentic vision of the modern woman. These qualities had aesthetic significance, making possible her portrayal of French equivalents of the classic Hollywood screwball heroines. Such qualities were also central to her ideological operation. This complex process centred upon conflict between her passive jeune fille persona and her kinetic modern woman identity. As we have seen, this conflict manifested itself differently in her dramas and comedies: in her dramas, such as Abus de confiance, the jeune fille is used to hide some of her modern characteristics, while in her comedies, such as Un mauvais garçon, the reverse happens. But also, central to Darrieux’s ideological importance was precisely the fact that she was not mysterious and ‘elsewhere’; she was direct, present and of the moment, qualities that made her important during the Popular Front. This shows the versatility of cinematic stardom, its capacity to channel different aspects of the ‘cinematic’ into different values. Indeed, at the end of the decade, with the discovery of Michèle Morgan, another popular inflection of cinematic stardom would arise, privileging other cinematic qualities and endorsing a different ideology.

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5

The poetry of poetic realism: Michèle Morgan

Whereas Darrieux had been making films since the early 1930s, and Annabella the late 1920s, Morgan rose to fame later, with her first important film appearance occurring in 1937, when she starred in Gribouille. Her place within the new tradition of cinematic stardom is hinted at by an article in La Cinématographie Française, which compares her with Darrieux: ‘Michèle Morgan holds the promises of Gribouille and affirms her intelligence, her expression, her sensibility; she is the big revelation of the year and consoles us over the departure of Danielle Darrieux.’1 Certainly, as we shall see, there were important similarities between Morgan and the cinematic stars already considered. At the same time, Morgan realised new possibilities for cinematic stardom, which were central to her significance in late-1930s French cinema. In particular, she made an important contribution to poetic realism, which was gaining popularity at this time, and to notions of femininity in a post-Popular Front France. However, before I deal with these issues, it is first of all necessary to consider the beginning of her career – her ‘discovery’ by Marc Allégret, and her subsequent rise to fame.

Allégret’s discovery Instead of being spotted on the stage, Morgan, or rather Simone Roussel (her real name), was ‘discovered’ sunbathing on a beach in her hometown of Dieppe by the director Marc Allégret. She was an extra in Mademoiselle Mozart, which further connects her with Darrieux who was the film’s star, before appearing in a 161

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number of other films in minor roles, such as Une fille à papa (René Guissart, 1935), Mes tantes et moi (Yvan Noé, 1936), Gigolette (Yvan Noé, 1936), Le Mioche (Léonide Moguy, 1936) and La Vie parisienne (Robert Siodmak, 1936). Her status as a ‘discovery’ became a significant part of her identity, which was frequently commented upon in the period’s fan magazines. For example, images of her were accompanied with captions like ‘Michèle Morgan, a discovery’,2 ‘A discovery of 1937, Michèle Morgan’,3 and ‘Michèle Morgan, the new discovery of the cinema’.4 She was described as ‘one of the revelations of the season’,5 and the cover of an issue of Pour Vous in January 1938 advertised: ‘In this issue: a new star, Michèle Morgan’.6 Another article discussing her was entitled: ‘Une étoile est née …’ (‘A Star Is Born …’).7 It was particularly important that her ‘discoverer’ was Marc Allégret, who was famed for his ability to find new talent; Bernard Houssiau’s book on Allégret is even entitled Marc Allégret: Découvreur de stars (Marc Allégret: discoverer of stars).8 In addition to launching Morgan’s career, Allégret was responsible for the early stardom of Simone Simon, another cinematic star, and later Brigitte Bardot. Cinematic stars, as we have seen, were chosen for reasons other than proven acting ability and in particular for their photogenic qualities. This was the case with Morgan; when Allégret first spotted her, his assessment of her potential to be a star would have been based entirely upon her appearance. A passage from Morgan’s autobiography confirms this: ‘Do you know you’re beautiful?’ he asked me. How delightful! ‘With those eyes you ought to become an actress.’9 Morgan’s appearance did indeed became central to her stardom. Her classic ‘timeless beauty’ was important in forming her identity as an ethereal ‘film goddess’. With her youthfulness (she was only seventeen when she made Gribouille), her sculptured looks and her slim, statuesque physique she has the appearance of a woman from a classical sculpture or painting. Her face is a smooth, porcelain white, containing perfectly proportioned features (see Figure 20, a photograph that appeared 162

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The poetry of poetic realism: Michèle Morgan

in La Cinématographie Française on 27 August 1937). This classical aesthetic is achieved through the absence of unusual or idiosyncratic characteristics. However, the one distinctive feature that is continually remarked upon is her eyes. For example, Allégret’s above observation refers to her eyes, as did an article appearing in Pour Vous in 1938, entitled: ‘Deux yeux bleus immenses: Michèle Morgan’ (‘Two immense blue eyes: Michèle Morgan’).10 This aspect of her beauty was even narrativised in her third film

Figure 20

Michèle Morgan still, taken from La Cinématographie Française 163

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as a star, Le Quai des brumes, in which Gabin famously says: ‘T’as d’beaux yeux, tu sais!’ (‘You have beautiful eyes, you know!’). Her eyes became such a distinguishing feature that they are alluded to in the title of her autobiography, which is called With Those Eyes (a reference to Allégret’s comments, quoted above). Although distinct, the paleness of her eyes also reinforces her whiteness and thus her classical quality. This form of beauty was important in initiating her persona as a transcendent and ethereal woman, an aspect that will be dealt with shortly. Because Morgan did not perform in the theatre (at least not until 1978 when she appeared in Le Tout pour le tout), she was associated entirely with the cinematic. Importantly, then, Morgan, like the other cinematic stars, differed from the theatrical stars in how she embodied the dichotomy between ordinariness and extraordinariness that is essential to film stardom. As we have seen, the discovery of stars has important implications, emphasising their innate extraordinariness, rather than their acquired skill. Combined with her attainment of greater ‘distance’ and a ‘cinematic aura’, her physical beauty served to position Morgan as an extraordinary individual. Existing in tension with this were discourses highlighting her ordinariness. For example, this was emphasised by the nature of her discovery: by her being spotted by Allégret while sunbathing on a beach in a provincial French town her modest origins were stressed. This made her a potential role model and inspiration for the many young French women who hoped that they too would one day be discovered. Discussing this in an article on Morgan, Serge Veber wrote: Here is some news that will please all the young girls who are dreaming of one day being made famous by the screen, and that will also prove those wrong who think, and who write to me, that you can’t get a big film role, in France, if you haven’t got a big name or you haven’t been supported by a serious man.11 He then went on to add: ‘She has never done any theatre work, she is neither the niece of a minister or an influential banker, she hasn’t got a fortune.’12 We can see, then, that cinematic stardom offered hope for star-struck fans. 164

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The poetry of poetic realism: Michèle Morgan

Allégret further crafted Morgan into a star by the use he made of her in Gribouille and Orage (Marc Allégret, 1937), the two films they made together. To some extent, both projects had significant connections with the ‘theatricality’ that was common in 1930s French cinema: Marcel Achard, a prominent boulevard playwright, wrote Gribouille; he also adapted Orage from the Henry Bernstein play Venin (which Gaby Morlay had performed in on stage ten years earlier in 1927). However, both films possess a visual style that is in general distinct from the decade’s filmed theatre. As Andrew writes, both are close to poetic realism: Gribouille, like the next Achard-Allégret production, Orage (1937), exhibits more than a hint of the poetic realist tone, the credit for which must go either to Allégret or to the fact that by 1937 Achard had absorbed tendencies coming from sources other than the boulevard theater with which he was primarily associated.13 Credit should also go to Morgan, in part because she would become the female star of poetic realism – a key aspect of her persona that I shall go on to discuss – and because her stardom, which was defined against the theatrical, injected a ‘cinematic’ quality into these films. While her entrance in Gribouille is by no means spectacular, anticipation of her arrival is heightened through conversations revolving around the crime that her character Natalie Roguin, a Russian immigrant, has allegedly committed (it is claimed she has murdered her boyfriend). Of crucial importance, she receives star treatment in the form of a number of glamorous close-ups – she is given the characteristic soft lighting used to present Hollywood stars. Most significantly, in these films Allégret utilised her ‘cinematic’ performance style. This had been developed through the coaching she received from René Simon, a famous acting teacher of the 1930s and 1940s. While Simon was an expert in theatrical performance, resulting from his earlier career on stage, he also specialised in giving instruction in film acting. Designed for cinema screens, and not the stage, Morgan’s acting is highly nuanced. This is apparent in her first scene in Gribouille in which Natalie is being tried in court. Constrained within the 165

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dock, all of Morgan’s movements are low-key. When the film cuts to her first close-up, her fear of the situation is conveyed by her teary eyes, which she gently casts across the jurors. Whereas her reduced movements articulate her timidity and helplessness in this situation, the bolder, more exaggerated poses of the jurors suggest their strength and seriousness. In particular, Raimu’s (as Mortestan) expressive face conveys his concentration on the case. Their different acting styles are central to the meaning of this scene: whereas, Raimu’s physicality conveys Mortestan’s authority and control, Morgan’s acting depicts Nathalie’s vulnerability. Morgan’s star performance in Gribouille was well received by the French public. Consequently, in her next film, Orage, her stardom is emphasised to a greater degree, even though she is very much in the shadow of Charles Boyer, her co-star for the film, who was at this time a huge French and Hollywood star. She is given more close-ups than in Gribouille and, significantly, is given an elaborate ‘entrance’. André Pascaud (Boyer), who is going on a work trip to Paris, is given a letter by his brother-in-law, Gilbert (Robert Manuel), which he wants delivering to a woman he knew who lives there, called Françoise Massart (Morgan). Because of this, even before we first see Morgan, her character has been talked about. Our anticipation is heightened further when André arrives at the house she is living in. When he asks for directions to her room, the landlady pulls a face, suggesting a lack of surprise that another man is looking for her. We first hear Françoise’s voice as she invites André into her room, which is dark, thus affording us only a glimpse of her silhouette as she puts on a pair of stockings. A view of her face is further restricted by a shot from over her shoulder, in which she is again just a silhouette. André searches for a match to illuminate her room. He finds one, lights it, and holds it up his face to introduce himself. He then brings it down towards her; it is only then that we finally see her face. The light is cast in particular on her eyes, which as mentioned were a famous feature of Morgan’s appearance. To add impact to this delayed introduction, she snappily introduces herself: ‘Françoise Massart!’ The nature of Morgan’s treatment in these films was crucial in defining her as a star. Under the subheading ‘Des jeunes 166

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The poetry of poetic realism: Michèle Morgan

montent’ (‘The young are rising’), an article in La Cinématographie Française stated: ‘Michèle Morgan, whom Gribouille and Orage have successfully launched, demonstrates the potential for rejuvenation, for renewal that the French cinema possesses.’14 The same magazine also described the extent of her success: ‘Michèle Morgan, whose rapid ascent proves her great talent and whose first creations in Gribouille and Orage have placed her in the top rank of our best stars’.15 While I have so far outlined the importance of her star treatment in these films, this alone cannot explain her success. This also had much to do with the nature of the persona that emerged in Gribouille and Orage. Because she remained for her first two films with the same writer/director team, her star image was able to attain a significant degree of coherency and continuity. In both films Morgan played an up-to-date, modern woman, an aspect of her persona that became crucial to her later cinematic appearances. Furthermore, her ethereal quality, which I have already hinted at in Gribouille was repeated in Orage, again through her nuanced performance style, as well as through narrative elements that associated her with notions of spiritual elevation and transcendence.

The transcendence of Michèle Morgan Michèle Morgan was the most iconic female star of poetic realism. All her main films from the 1930s were of – or possessed strong elements of – the genre: Gribouille, Orage, Le Quai des brumes (one of the definitive poetic realist films), L’Entraîneuse (Albert Valentin, 1938) and Remorques (Jean Grémillon, 1939–41). And as we shall see, she formed an ‘ideal couple’ with Jean Gabin who was the male star of poetic realism. In this section I would like to consider an aspect of her persona that is central to her contribution to these films: her transcendent quality. To some extent transcendence is important in her persona because of the frequency with which her characters express a desire for it – to live above and beyond everyday life. This was noticed by one reviewer for Ciné-miroir in 1938 who wrote: ‘She seems to long for the inaccessible, the unattainable.’16 Often 167

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this desire is expressed through her musings on the possibility of romantic love – whether it exists and whether she can attain it. For example, in her first conversation with Jean (Jean Gabin) in Le Quai des brumes she (as Nelly) is disturbed by his cynicism towards love, asking: ‘Do you really think that? ... What you were saying about love?’ In a number of scenes she looks off-screen into the distance, capturing her longing for the unattainable, the transcendent (Figure 21, taken from Le Quai des brumes). This expression is a recurring feature of her ideolect, appearing in a number of her films of the period. As well as desiring the unattainable for herself, Morgan also represents for other characters – and the audience – the possibility of transcendence. Central to Morgan’s embodiment of an ethereal, poetic femininity is a tension existing within her characters between the ordinary and extraordinary, the humble and the divine. The women she plays will often have the outward appearance of being unpretentious, modest women, but are also simultaneously, or subsequently, endowed with an almost spiritual significance. This

Figure 21

Jean Gabin and Michèle Morgan in Le Quai des brumes

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The poetry of poetic realism: Michèle Morgan

is in keeping with poetic realism, which, as Vincendeau points out, ‘proposes a duality between the everyday and the lyrical/emotional, poetry arising precisely from the everyday’.17 This tension between ordinariness and extraordinariness is apparent in her first appearance in Le Quai des brumes. Jean is in Panama’s, a lonely bar situated on a misty seafront, frequented by misfits and outcasts. Because he is tired and hungry, the eponymous owner invites him into the back room for some supper. When they enter we are introduced to Nelly, who stands by the window, looking out into the night, before turning to face them (Figure 22). On the one hand, the ensuing scene hints that she is ordinary, a point that is implied not only by her presence in such a mundane location but also by Jean’s suggestion that she is typical: ‘Girls are all the same. They’re on the game and as sentimental as turtle-doves’ (my emphasis). On the other hand, the scene is concerned with how she is decidedly atypical, through the mysterious aura she exudes. When we first see her, we may ask: Who is she? Why is she in this rundown bar? What is she looking at, or for, through the window? Her physical

Figure 22

Michèle Morgan in Le Quai des brumes 169

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appearance participates in this construction of mysteriousness – her eyes seem, as one reviewer wrote, ‘unreal’18 and her costume is congruent with the film’s poetic atmosphere, encapsulating the contradictory nature of Morgan’s female body: as a see-through garment it both contains and displays her physicality, but it also, thanks to its transparency, metaphorically suggests a mysterious absence of corporeality. This combination of the humble and the divine means that Morgan possesses similarities with certain religious visions of femininity. The Virgin Mary, for example, was chosen to be the mother of Christ precisely because of her humility. It also associates her with Joan of Arc, who was working as a humble shepherdess when she first experienced visions of God. Indeed, such an association was made explicit from her very first scene as a star in Gribouille. Before leaving to go to court at the beginning of the film, Mortestan teases his wife for having a Joan of Arc statue on the shop counter. By the evocation of this national symbol we are then invited to make connections between the following courtroom scene and Joan of Arc’s own famous trial. More explicit connections were made when Morgan played a modern-day Joan of Arc in Joan of Paris (Robert Stevenson, 1942), which was made, and set, during the war, and when she played Joan of Arc later in her career in Destinées (Christian-Jaque, Jean Delannoy and Marcello Pagliero, 1954). Morgan even perpetuates this association in her autobiography when she discusses the financial difficulties her parents were experiencing before she was famous: ‘If only I could help them! This resolve gave me a sudden exaltation of spirit. There was a breeze that evening, my hair shivered in the wind. I was resolute, invincible. I was Joan of Arc.’19 Proof that Morgan is to some extent an embodied, earthly presence is provided by her experience of profoundly human states: sadness and suffering. This aspect of her character was discussed in Ciné-miroir, which described her as: ‘a mysterious artist, never completely fulfilled […] despite her youth and beauty, she bears within her a secret melancholy […] her climate is one of pervasive anguish, for as she says happiness is out of the question for her’.20 Another article states: ‘To love, to suffer, to struggle! For her, that’s the sole reason for existence.’21 Her role as a suffering, 170

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tragic woman was established early in her films with Allégret and Achard. In Gribouille she is a victim of her previous boyfriend, the cold court proceedings and finally Mortestan – despite initially protecting her, in the film’s conclusion he hits her on the head with the Joan of Arc statue. Susan Hayward describes this: ‘Gribouille intercepts him and slugs Morgan over the head. Twice then the father intercedes and shapes her destiny – a fairly standard patriarchal set of affairs, simpleton or no simpleton.’22 What this quotation highlights is that Morgan’s suffering is the result of her oppression as a woman and her position as daughter, within the confines of patriarchy. Indeed, as with Annabella and Darrieux, Morgan was a daughter-figure in many of her films, most notably Gribouille, Le Quai des brumes and L’Entraîneuse (a film I shall consider in more detail shortly). Morgan’s humility is so extreme that she begins to take on an elevated, magical quality: she is presented as an ‘eternal feminine’, who almost seems to inhabit another sphere of existence, outside history and time (though this exists in tension with her ‘modern’ aspects as we shall see shortly). In this respect, she is remarkably similar to Greta Garbo, a comparison that has been made by Susan Hayward, who writes: ‘Michèle Morgan remains exotic and mysterious, enigmatic and unfathomable (a successful attempt at making a French Garbo).’23 Indeed, the two stars attained their mystery in comparable ways; in particular, for both this stemmed from their nuanced styles of acting and their ethereal glamour. Moreover, they would both frequently be associated with the natural world, a perfect metaphor for their eternal nature. Alexander Walker writes: But the interesting thing is that, with the Talkies, dialogue was purposely written to endow Garbo with a mysterious sense of having direct communion with the elements, even of being a part of them. ‘Are you real, or born of a snowdrift?’ is the unwontedly lyrical query addressed to her by Napoleon when they first meet in Marie Walewska.24 Prior to making Orage, Morgan’s co-star Boyer had just starred in Marie Walewska (Clarence Brown, 1937) with Garbo.25 The 171

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success of the film in France may have inspired Allégret and Achard to emphasise the similarities between Garbo and Morgan by using nature in a comparable way. Following Orage, Morgan’s association with the forces of nature became a central feature of her persona. In Remorques she is also connected with the sea, an environment that connotes her mystery and promise of freedom. Such a connection gains importance following a speech made at a wedding at the beginning of the film in which Dr Maulette (Henri Poupon) states that ‘each sailor has two women: his wife and then the sea’. Following this, we can interpret Catherine (Morgan) as a personification of the sea and her relationship with André (Jean Gabin), who has an extramarital affair with her, as a dramatisation of the above conflict. As an ‘eternal feminine’, existing outside of society, it is implied that Morgan attains a state of ‘purity’, unsullied by the evils of the social world. An article in Pour Vous wrote, ‘she is pure in the impure’,26 and Albert Valentin, who directed her in L’Entraîneuse, referred to her as ‘someone extraordinarily pure’.27 At one point in Le Quai des brumes, she has the following conversation with Gabin, which sums up this aspect of her persona: Nelly: I grew up too quickly, saw too much. I’m damaged goods. Jean: Damaged goods! Come on, don’t be crazy! You’re the most unspoilt girl I’ve ever met. To some extent this ‘purity’ is created through her physiognomy – her youthfulness suggests her innocence. In addition, as with Annabella and Darrieux, her embodiment of ‘purity’ for 1930s audiences in France would also have been related to her whiteness and her typical Aryan features of light-coloured hair and blue eyes. These points are particularly clear if we compare Morgan with Viviane Romance, whom I considered in Chapter 1. Whereas Morgan’s appearance and performance style serve to establish her as a model of ‘ideal’, transcendent perfection, Romance is, as we have seen, more down-to-earth; while Morgan’s ethereal appearance, nuanced acting and neutral accent suggest the 172

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heavenly, Romance’s voluptuousness, theatrical performance style and strong working-class accent suggest the base, the physical, the sexual. These qualities are important to the different ways in which they function in their films. While both perform essentially sexist ideological operations, the nature of the sexism is different for each. As we have seen, Romance’s femininity, because of her sexuality, is depicted as dangerous; in La Belle équipe she threatens the solidarity of the male group, ultimately becoming an obstacle to their friendship. By contrast, rather than being manipulative and scheming, Morgan is nurturing and offers transcendence to men from obstacles. And yet, Morgan’s transcendental appeal can also have an adverse effect on men: as with Romance, she has been seen as having something of a dangerous quality. Frequently Morgan would be responsible for the downfall of the men in her films. Noticing this, one reader of Pour Vous described her as an ‘angel and demon’.28 This aspect of her persona is evident in Gribouille in which her beauty destabilises Mortestan, leading him to attack her in the closing scene. In Le Quai des brumes, the profound effect she has on Jean indirectly leads to his death: although he is on a boat, on the point of escape to Venezuela, he is drawn back towards Nelly, which results in him being shot dead by Lucien (Pierre Brasseur). However, in each of these cases Morgan is distinct from the classic femme fatale who intentionally schemes against men, in the way that Viviane Romance, for example, frequently does. Without intentional malice, Morgan is fatale because of the power of her transcendent appeal. The transcendence of Michèle Morgan creates a decidedly passive vision of femininity. Although her suffering is to some extent established as her motive for wishing to attain personal elevation, it is also one of the main ways through which she represents transcendence for men. This is explicitly clear in Le Quai des brumes in which she is a cleansing force for Gabin, soothing his haunting memories and guilty conscience brought about by his experiences of war. What this illustrates is that although, as we have seen, her suffering is caused by patriarchal oppression, she also suffers for patriarchy to provide inspiration and spiritual cleansing for men. It is because of these qualities that Morgan 173

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was well suited to the quasi-incestuous narratives described by Vincendeau, and Burch and Sellier: she is youthful, vulnerable and possesses a particular kind of attraction, based upon her transcendent purity. These qualities drew older men to her in a number of films: Raimu in Gribouille, Michel Simon in Le Quai des brumes and Tramel in L’Entraîneuse. Even though the latter two patriarchs are described by Burch and Sellier as ‘bad fathers’, which means they are criticised by the narrative for their negative behaviour towards her, the result is that her female weakness is emphasised in opposition to their patriarchal strength. At the same time, like Annabella and Darrieux, Morgan was also a key example of the 1930s modern woman. As part of this, she would frequently portray characters who live outside the constraints of the traditional nuclear family. Her extra-filmic identity contributed to this as she adopted an independent lifestyle, buying her own apartment in Paris, which was the subject of a Pour Vous article in 193829 and a villa in the south of France.30 While in Gribouille she is positioned as Mortestan’s symbolic daughter, she is also shown as outside the family, whose collective identity is stressed at a number of points by showing them sat around the table together, discussing family problems. Morgan’s separateness from this is illustrated through her detached location within their family home, her room being situated in the house’s attic. Her independence even sometimes manifests itself through moments in which she explicitly challenges male domination and gender inequality. In Le Quai des brumes Jean and Nelly have the following exchange when, after she has discreetly slipped some money into his pocket, knowing that he is broke, he attempts to return it by buying her a gift: Nelly: Why buy a souvenir for me? Jean: I don’t like taking a woman’s money. Nelly: A man’s, a woman’s, what’s the difference? As with other modern women, Morgan’s independence is also apparent through her possession of a degree of sexual liberation. This is hinted at from the first shots of Françoise in Orage. As we have seen, as André enters her room, we are presented with an 174

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image of her as she puts her stockings on – cinematic shorthand to signify that a woman is a sexual character. The sexual dimension of Morgan’s persona is hinted at in a number of her films, particularly in Remorques in which she actively pursues her desire through an affair with Gabin. While this clearly exists in tension with the purity that is central to her ‘transcendence’, it is worth noting that her sexuality is never as base and physical as that of theatrical stars like Arletty or Viviane Romance. For instance, when Françoise puts stockings on in Orage she is etherealised through Morgan’s nuanced acting and the careful use of light and shadow, making her distinct from Gina (Romance) in La Belle équipe, who performs the same action in a more open and deliberately provocative way (Figure 5, p. 43). Similarly, after spending the night with Jean in Le Quai des brumes, Nelly awakes bathed in soft light in an image that suggests her continuing purity. Such moments reveal the French specificity of Morgan’s femininity. Whereas the pure young woman in Hollywood at this time could not also be sexual, Morgan, like other women in poetic realism (such as Jacqueline Laurent in Le Jour se lève), was able to be sexual, without possessing an attendant vulgarity. Above all Morgan’s modernity came from her possession of the modern ‘look’; she was tall and slim, and exceptionally glamorous (see Figure 23, a promotional photograph for Le Quai des brumes). She was the first film star to appear on the cover of Marie-Claire, which as I have discussed was a magazine that promoted a ‘modern’ lifestyle and that gave up-to-date fashion advice for women, and like Annabella and Darrieux she also featured in many fan magazine articles discussing her beauty and clothing. In one of these, entitled ‘Métamorphoses de la beauté’ (‘Changes in beauty’), she appears in a glossy studio photograph, juxtaposed with images of two iconic Hollywood modern women, Joan Crawford and Katharine Hepburn, as well as Simone Simon, a fellow cinematic star.31 Her association with contemporary fashions is also evident in Le Quai des brumes in which her costume – the long transparent overcoat and beret – was designed by Coco Chanel, the quintessential modern designer. Morgan’s active modernity contrasts with the passivity that defines her ‘transcendent’ identity, creating a tension in her 175

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Figure 23

Michèle Morgan publicity still for Le Quai des brumes

persona; as with Annabella and Darrieux, she simultaneously embodies opposing tendencies, contradictory notions. But how are these tensions reconciled? Here it will be useful to consider L’Entraîneuse, which was a star vehicle, organised entirely around the Michèle Morgan star persona. 176

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L’Entraîneuse: A Michèle Morgan star vehicle Although L’Entraîneuse included other popular performers such as Gilbert Gil, Fréhel, Gisèle Préville and Andrex, Morgan is firmly established as the film’s star. According to Vincendeau: ‘Charles Spaak declared that he had tailored the character of Suzy to fit [Michèle Morgan’s] image.’32 She appeared on the rear cover of Pour Vous in August 1939 in a publicity still for L’Entraîneuse, with a caption referring to her as ‘the heartbreaking heroine’ of the film,33 and in the film’s credits, and on its posters, her name appears before the title. Because the poster is almost entirely dominated by her image (see the front cover of this book), her centrality as the key selling point for the film is further illustrated. This highlights the extent of Morgan’s popularity at this time and the fascination with her star persona. She plays a character called Suzy who is sick of her job as an entraîneuse (a hostess) at a nightclub called La Dame de Coeur. When treated to a holiday by a wealthy friend, she travels to the French Riviera, living out the life of a modern woman and integrating herself within a group of bourgeois youths. She begins a relationship with one of these, Pierre Noblet (Gilbert Gil), and it seems she may finally find happiness. However, the rich uncle of her new friends, Monsieur Noblet (Tramel), who comes to join them on holiday, turns out to be a client from La Dame de Coeur. When alone with Suzy, he forbids her from marrying Pierre and makes sexual advances towards her. Rejecting these, she leaves the hotel and returns to her previous life in Paris. The film’s structure enables an exploration of the two main aspects of Morgan’s persona outlined so far. In general, the first section, in which we see Suzy working in La Dame de Coeur, explores the transcendent part of her persona, detailing the suffering she experiences in an enclosed and gloomy milieu; the second part, depicting her holiday in the Riviera, explores her identity as a modern woman. The distinction between these two realms is highlighted by the film’s poster, which shows the Riviera in yellow in the bottom left-hand corner and the grey Parisian city in the top right-hand corner. These two distinct sections are also demarcated in the title sequence through the use of two contrasting styles of music. Initially, it begins melancholically with an 177

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orchestral version of Sans Lendemain, a song that Fréhel sings later in the film. Then, the music turns into an upbeat and modern, light-hearted jazz tune. It continues to fluctuate between both styles, preparing us for the film’s two distinct registers. In addition to Morgan, a number of the film’s contributors worked on other poetic realist films. While it was Albert Valentin’s directorial debut, he had worked as René Clair’s assistant for six years – as Andrew has argued, the poetic realist style owed much to Clair’s film style of the early 1930s.34 Charles Spaak had written some key films belonging to the poetic realist canon, including Les Bas-fonds (Jean Renoir, 1936) and Gueule d’amour. Fréhel, the chanteuse réaliste, had performed in Pépé le Moko and La Rue sans nom (Pierre Chenal, 1933). In the opening sections, set in La Dame de Coeur, her singing is an important element in the creation of the pessimistic atmosphere that forms the context in which Suzy acts out her miserable and confined existence. This is also facilitated by the film’s style and iconography, which are evocative of poetic realism. Kelley Conway writes: ‘The sequences in Paris all take place at night and nearly always indoors. They are characterised by a feeling of claustrophobia, which connotes the closed world of the entraîneuse.’35 In addition, the brief exterior sequences feature typical poetic realist iconography, including a working-class milieu, high-contrast lighting and rain-soaked streets. As Suzy stands on a bridge over a railway track there are bars – signifying her entrapment – as well as clouds of steam, an element that could be a direct reference to her earlier film Le Quai des brumes, which had a famous opening sequence depicting a gloomy and misty Le Havre. By dwelling in these scenes on Suzy’s misery, many features of Morgan’s transcendent persona are mobilised. Despite being a hostess, with the implication that she may also be a prostitute, she maintains her ethereal quality, as Susan Hayward points out: ‘surprisingly, one might think, but here too she remains evanescent and “unattainable”’.36 The explanation for this is that, as mentioned, much of this quality is generated by Morgan’s physical features – such as her whiteness and her youth – as well as through her nuanced, statuesque performance style. In keeping with the transcendent dimension of Morgan’s persona, at La Dame de 178

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Coeur, Suzy is an essentially passive character; indeed, it is her job to attend to men and to do as they command. Her first appearance in the film immediately suggests this passivity. Sat statically in the nightclub’s dressing room, she is introduced to us through a close-up, which tilts up her body to reveal her face. To some extent, this is a typical introduction to a star, gradually disclosing her identity and building a degree of suspense until her face is revealed. It also immediately identifies Suzy as a static object of the male gaze. When she goes into the main part of the nightclub, we are shown that the powerful males who frequent the establishment treat her in an unpleasant way. She is told by two customers to talk to one of their colleagues, a rich businessman (Monsieur Noblet), whose authority has been established in the opening scene, in which he addresses a group of distinguished-looking men sat around a long table. Initially he converses pleasantly with Suzy, but, when he sees his friends returning, he is rudely dismissive, not wanting to be seen with an entraîneuse. At the end of the film he will demonstrate his hypocrisy further when he refuses to allow Suzy to marry Pierre because of her occupation, while he himself continues to frequent the nightclub. Discussing this prime example of what they refer to as a ‘bad father’, Burch and Sellier write: This film paints one of the most realistic portraits of the hypocrisy that characterises real patriarchal power – the double standard in English […] – in the person of a rich CEO, a good-natured autocrat at home, an exploiter of women in the city.37 Suzy’s chance to escape her life at La Dame de Coeur is presented when she is given a holiday to the Riviera by a wealthy friend. When she arrives there, she is transformed into a modern woman. This demonstrates the use of a technique typical of star vehicles. Maltby writes: In the production of a star vehicle, the character is adapted to fit the star. A frequently used mechanism centers the plot on a character who eventually displays the skills that the audience already knows the performer possesses. A convincing 179

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performance is thus one in which the character becomes the star persona as the movie progresses […] Barbara Klinger describes the process by which a movie reveals its star’s persona through the progress of the plot as being ‘a kind of dramatic striptease’ that reveals ‘the “real” image of the star behind the disguise of the character in question.’38 In this case, Morgan becomes another aspect of her persona and, as we have seen, one in which she embodies distinctly different discourses. In contrast to the melancholia of the opening section, this part of the film has a more light-hearted tone, in keeping with Suzy’s optimism and newfound freedom. Visually less miserable, the section that takes place in the sunny and exotic Riviera is a celebration of the modern lifestyle. Whereas in the Paris section Suzy is introduced through a camera movement that lifts up her static body, her first appearance in the Riviera captures her increased movement and fluidity. Walking from the station, she is less trapped by the constraints of the frame; the camera follows her seemingly spontaneous movements. This increased freedom is also conveyed by the exterior shots, which display the open spaces of the Riviera. When she arrives at the hotel, her increased agency is expressed when she declines the invitations of Pierre’s brothers, one of whom asks if she would like to dance, the other if she would like to play table tennis. Whereas in La Dame de Coeur she was told what to do and whom to talk to, here she can choose whom she spends her time with. In the Riviera section the film performs a function similar to that of the women’s magazine Marie-Claire by showcasing various aspects of the modern lifestyle. This is the case, for example, in a scene in which Marcel (Andrex) mixes a drink for Lucienne (Préville). Because the activity is carried out in the foreground of the shot, while they talk in the background, we are shown various steps and procedures, making it almost serve as a lesson in how to make such a drink. Also, because of Morgan’s many costume changes, the film is to some extent like a fashion show, displaying the clothes that are currently considered ‘modern’. This is partly of course because L’Entraîneuse is a star vehicle, showcasing Morgan’s appearance in a range of costumes. It also conveys 180

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Suzy’s increased agency; while in the opening scenes she dresses to impress the male customers of La Dame de Coeur, here she is able to wear whatever she likes. Furthermore, in contrast to the opening section where the accent is on the oppressive nature of Suzy’s work, in the Riviera there is a greater emphasis upon leisure. In fact, the distinction between work and leisure is much less clear-cut. For example, at the school where Pierre works, there is only one pupil and one other teacher. The pupil seems to spend his days bouncing a ball and the teacher lounges around in a hammock. This focus on leisure and vacation is also evocative of the moment of the Popular Front. We see youths swimming, riding bikes and picnicking in the countryside, activities that the government had hoped their leisure and vacation policies would make available to all French citizens. As one group departs from the hotel on their bikes, they sing Je ne donnerais pas ma place, the same song that Darrieux sings in Un mauvais garçon, at the height of the Popular Front as she sets off into the public world to begin her career as a lawyer, full of hope and determination. However, L’Entraîneuse was made as the Popular Front was collapsing, and Morgan is not the same determined figure that Darrieux was. As we have seen, much of Darrieux’s significance for this period came from her energetic performance style, which was often channelled into her confrontations with authority figures. By contrast, even as a glamorous and intelligent modern woman, Morgan is more passive and melancholic, more accepting of her fate. One reader of Pour Vous, who it seems was one of the few people not to be a fan of Morgan, referred to these differences between the two stars: ‘She needs to learn to be lively (to be inspired by the little Darrieux), to smile less enigmatically and sadly, which she has too much of a tendency to do.’39 While this fan was not impressed by Morgan, sadness and mystery were central to her persona. Indeed, when Suzy returns to Paris and her work at La Dame de Coeur, the film closes on these elements: we are taken from a close-up of Morgan, enacting her ideolect of looking sadly off-camera into the distance, to a close-up of Fréhel as she sings Sans Lendemain, a song that, as Vincendeau puts it, evokes ‘the pathos of the female loser’.40 In doing so, the film hints that Fréhel represents Suzy’s 181

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sad future. For a Morgan star vehicle, such a pessimistic ending is entirely appropriate. On the one hand, the film is an exposé of the inequalities between the sexes. The negative treatment that Suzy receives from Noblet is condemned by the film, which, by being presented entirely from her point of view, aligns us with her hardships, her dilemmas, her misery. On the other hand, the fact that her misery is such a central part of Morgan’s appeal – as a key element in her transcendent, poetic persona – highlights the increased popularity at this time of representations of more passive women. This was indicative of shifts in gender relations in the post-Popular Front period. With the fall of the Popular Front in 1938, French politics moved back to the right, a shift that not only affected French workers and their newly won leisure (which was promptly taken back from them) but also had an impact on gender. The moment of real change for women, it seemed, was still some way off. As the right-wing Daladier government set about re-establishing and bolstering the weakened patriarchy, it would introduce the Code de la famille (a pronatalist policy that made the penalty for abortion more severe and offered financial incentives to encourage families to have more children). The film’s exploration of Morgan’s femininity is relevant to such a climate: although Suzy is given a taste of modernity, she returns to her ‘tragic’ reality. The key point here is not so much that Morgan and L’Entraîneuse ‘reflect’ pessimism that was felt by women at this time, but rather that Morgan’s sublimated femininity, lovingly showcased at the film’s close, speaks of a society that was now keen to see women as metaphysical symbols, not as embodied equals. In order to highlight further the importance of this femininity, I would like to finish this chapter by considering Morgan’s films with Jean Gabin; together they constituted a popular, as well as ideologically loaded, partnership.

Jean Gabin and Michèle Morgan: The mythic couple of French cinema In their films together, Gabin and Morgan were, according to Robert Chazal, ‘the most famous and convincing couple in French 182

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cinema of the time’.41 Their continuing popularity and status as a ‘star couple’ is illustrated by the fact that a Gabin–Morgan DVD box-set has been released in France, which contains two of their three films from the 1930s, Le Récif de corail (Maurice Gleize, 1938) and Remorques (the other film being Le Quai des brumes).42 The back cover of the collection captures the combined significance of the two stars, stating: ‘Jean Gabin, Michèle Morgan: the mythic couple of French cinema’.43 Such a partnership is important to Morgan’s stardom; Gabin was a hugely important star of the 1930s (and beyond), who frequently reached the top of the period’s popularity polls. He was a key figure in poetic realism, appearing in most of the main films in the canon, such as Les Bas-fonds, La Bête humaine, Le Quai des brumes and Le Jour se lève. For some he is one of the only ‘real’ stars of the decade, owing to his complex and ‘mythic’ persona.44 Consequently, how and why Morgan and Gabin became such an important star couple give insight into the nature of Morgan’s stardom, her popularity and the ideological operation of her persona. In part Gabin and Morgan’s status as a ‘mythic couple’ comes from the fact that they had an actual off-screen relationship. This is discussed by Morgan in her autobiography; indeed it is considered to be such an important part of her story that it is one of the main aspects of her life mentioned in the inside cover. Of course, since the earliest instances of film stardom there has been fascination with such ‘star couples’. Drawing on the work of Edgar Morin, Guy Austin writes: Edgar Morin has noted that, under the classical star system, film stars were perceived as other, as a race apart, with a semi-divine glamour. ‘Au zénith mythique du star system,’ it was understood that these gods and goddesses would stick to their own, and that ‘La star doit, de préférence, aimer la star.’ Hence, the mythic couples formed by Clark Gable and Carole Lombard, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, Alain Delon and Romy Schneider, Simone Signoret and Yves Montand.45 To some extent, then, being part of a star couple benefited the stardom of both Gabin and Morgan by emphasising their position 183

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as part of an elite group of people. However, while knowledge of Gabin and Morgan’s real-life romance can retrospectively inform our viewing of their films, their relationship began only around the time they were making their third film together in the 1930s, Remorques. Moreover, their romance was brief; it was cut short when, at the beginning of the Second World War, Gabin joined the armed forces and Morgan left France to work in Hollywood. While their real-life affair has undoubtedly contributed greatly to their status as a star couple, the myth began as a consequence of the on-screen romances depicted in their films. In her autobiography, Morgan claims that immediately following their appearance together in Le Quai des brumes (and thus before their real-life romance began), they were ‘unhesitatingly dubbed […] “the ideal couple of French cinema”.’46 But what makes them such an ideal screen couple? Here I would like to draw on Vincendeau’s argument that the romantic relationships in Gabin’s films involve a system of ‘doubling’, in which the female character ‘mirrors’ the protagonist played by Gabin. Discussing Pépé le Moko, Vincendeau writes: The woman’s function as object of male desire and projection of his fantasies is classic in mainstream cinema. What is special to Pépé le Moko (and many other Gabin films) is the degree to which the woman is coded, quite explicitly, as his double rather than his opposite.47 Essentially, such doubling is common in Gabin’s films because his appeal was based upon his possession of many traditionally female characteristics: in addition to playing physically strong, highly ‘masculine’ characters, he would also be defined by his vulnerability, his passivity and, as Vincendeau discusses, he would frequently be placed in the position of the ‘object of the gaze’.48 His ‘doubling’ with female characters, then, enhances this association with femininity. The doubling of Gabin and Morgan manifests itself first and foremost through their similarities in physical appearance. We can see their close resemblance with each other in Figure 24, an image from Remorques. Both are wearing black, they have their hair 184

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Figure 24 Michèle Morgan and Jean Gabin in Remorques. BFI Stills, Posters and Designs

swept back and with their blonde hair and blue eyes, both possess typical Aryan features. Such visual similarities are also highlighted in their films. In Le Quai des brumes, for instance, there are resemblances in their clothing, a point made by Turk: ‘Nelly’s trenchcoat, her beret, and her habit of walking with head bent and hands in her pockets are indeed tomboyish variants of Gabin’s own uniform and gait.’49 What Turk also indicates here are the similarities in Morgan’s and Gabin’s performance styles. As already discussed, Morgan’s ‘cinematic’ acting consists of a nuanced, naturalistic approach. Although Gabin initially came to the cinema from the music hall, his performance in film was minimalist, as Vincendeau points out: ‘Gabin’s performance was characterized by poise and understatement. This he achieved by “unlearning” the exaggeration of the comic music-hall he came from, allowing him to undercut the theatrical gestures of many of his co-actors.’50 In a cinema 185

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that was still dominated by theatrical stars, who as we have seen adopted ‘larger’, gestural approaches, this was an important similarity between Morgan and Gabin. Gabin and Morgan were also alike because both were frequently depicted as characters who are essentially trapped: Gabin because of his social role, as a working-class male; Morgan because of her position as a woman in a patriarchal society. A crucial part of the Gabin myth is his fatalistic, ‘tragic’ persona, which functions in unison with his identity as an ordinary working-class male, a duality that is captured by Bazin’s suggestion that Gabin is: ‘Oedipus in a cloth cap’.51 Gabin’s oppression is evident in his films with Morgan. In Le Quai des brumes, this stems from his job as an infantryman, or more precisely from his former job; he is a deserter, on the run from the military police. As a soldier he has endured traumatic experiences, some of which he recounts in the opening scene, saying: ‘You fire and … the guy gives a little cry … and clutches his belly, making a face like a kid who’s eaten too much …’. While he says this, his head is tilted to one side and he looks into the distance, conveying that he is immersed in terrible memories. At one point his eyes go slightly wider, which enhances the impression that his unpleasant past is becoming extremely vivid. Also, he has a cigarette burning in the corner of his mouth, which he doesn’t touch throughout the shot, emphasising the extent to which his concentration is fixed entirely upon the horrors in his past, rather than the present situation. His entrapment is stressed further by the presence of an all-encompassing mist and darkness, and by bar-shaped shadows that cross his body as he stands outside Panama’s. In Le Récif de corail Gabin is again trapped and again on the run from the law, this time for murder, a crime he commits in the film’s opening scene (rather like in La Bandera). His similar situation in Remorques is described by Vincendeau: ‘In Remorques […], he is the captain of his boat and the undisputed leader of his crew, but very much under the thumb of the company.’52 As we have seen, Morgan’s imprisonment within patriarchy is of paramount importance to her films. Her films with Gabin are no exception. In Le Quai des brumes, as Nelly, she is explicitly a victim of two male characters, her foster parent, Zabel (Michel Simon), and a local gangster, Lucien. Zabel is, like Monsieur Noblet, a 186

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key example of what Burch and Sellier refer to as the ‘bad father’. Before she meets Jean (Gabin), she seems to spend her time trying to avoid both these men. Her predicament is expressed in a conversation she has with Zabel, when she returns home after spending the night hiding at Panama’s: Zabel: Nelly: Zabel: Nelly:

Why did you run away? Because I was afraid. Why did you come back, then? Because others frighten me, too. Where would I go?

In Remorques she is again initially trapped by a male oppressor, this time in the form of her husband. However, at the beginning of the film she flees from him, escaping his boat in a storm, before being saved by André (Gabin) and his lifeboat crew. To some extent, in Remorques Catherine is afforded a significant degree of agency, which is in keeping with the modern woman aspect of Morgan’s persona: she makes the decisive move of leaving her husband and is active in initiating the affair she has with André. The collective imprisonment experienced by the Gabin–Morgan couple is a key source of romance in their films, suggesting that their need for each other is all the more important. Their situation is encapsulated in a famous image from Le Quai des brumes in which they are stood behind a window, looking into the outside world (Figure 25). The shot conveys their combined stasis and entrapment; they are confined by the window’s frame and its horizontal and vertical slats, and, in keeping with their low-key acting styles, they remain completely stationary (they don’t even blink). Such stasis is heightened by the movement provided by the smoke ascending from Jean’s cigarette and the mobility of the camera, which rapidly takes us from the door of Panama’s, where Zabel is exiting, to the couple in the window. In Gabin’s films images like this were common, as Vincendeau points out: The ‘claustrophobic framing devices, such as doors, windows, staircases’ […] that pervade film noir also characterise Poetic Realism. The most striking visual image of Jean Gabin – from one film to another – is that of his face trapped behind a window.53 187

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Figure 25

Jean Gabin and Michèle Morgan in Le Quai des brumes

What is important about the instance in Le Quai des brumes is that it encapsulates Jean and Nelly’s combined entrapment. It forms a romantic image of two outcasts who, oppressed and persecuted, must face the whole world with only each other. As such, it is also an image that suggests hope; perhaps together they will be able to break free from that which confines them. Indeed, the following shot seems to suggest as much. Previously the outside world was characterised by darkness and mist, which enclosed itself around Jean, creating a profound sense of pessimism and doom. Now they are together, the dawn has arrived and the mist has cleared, revealing the sea, stretching out before them. It is an image that suggests the possibility of escape, of a new beginning for them both. But is such escape possible? In their films together, Gabin’s ‘explosive’ working-class masculinity is depicted as a possible solution to Morgan’s problems. In Le Quai des brumes his famous eruptions of anger, discussed in the last chapter, are used against the men who pose a 188

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threat to her; both Zabel and Lucien are each the object of Jean’s wrath on two occasions. Most importantly, Jean successfully rescues Nelly from Zabel at the end of the film by brutally killing him with several blows to the head with a brick. Similarly, in Remorques André knocks Catherine’s husband unconscious. While this is for different reasons (for not paying for the services of André’s tugboat), it still emphasises that André’s strong working-class masculinity is a potential source of salvation for Catherine. Likewise, Morgan offers the possibility of escape for Gabin, representing transcendence for him from his worldly concerns. As I have argued, in Morgan’s persona mystery and purity were central qualities; in her films with Gabin, these elements are paramount. Discussing Le Quai des brumes, Pierre Mac Orlan, the writer of the original novel that the film was based upon, stated: ‘Michèle Morgan, with neither gowns nor jewelry, without any defense before those who stare at her, offers us the imaginary life, so pure, of a young girl marked by sadness.’54 As in her other films, Morgan’s purity and transcendence is emphasised through her appearance; in her films with Gabin, her already ethereal, smooth, white features are elevated further through the glamorous treatment she receives from the lighting and camera – she appears in a number of close-ups, often with soft, ‘poetic’ lighting. Morgan’s ethereal presence is also stressed through her nuanced and statuesque performance style. This is evident in a scene in Remorques depicting Catherine and André as they wander together along a beach. Her mysterious association with the limitlessness of the wide-open space of the beach and the vast ocean beyond is enhanced by a fluid tracking shot and some eerie music. Also of importance is the relaxed spontaneity of Morgan’s acting. She ‘wastes’ movements, often carrying out small, seemingly irrelevant gestures such as brushing her hair back as it goes into her eyes. There is no pattern to her vocal delivery, which gives the impression that the words are just coming to her as she goes along. Such an approach to acting is important because at a number of points we are left unclear about the exact nature of Catherine’s thoughts and feelings, an ambiguity that enhances the enigma of her character. As a result of these many elements, the scene expresses the main features of Morgan’s transcendent 189

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femininity and thus the main qualities that draw André towards her: her mysterious connection with the elevated and eternal, and the implication that she can provide him with freedom from the quotidian world. In her films with Gabin, Morgan is in opposition to other characters who represent the qualities from which he is trying to escape. In Le Quai des brumes her youth, purity and Aryan qualities make her distinct from Zabel, who is much older than her, and has dark hair and a long beard. Moreover, he has murdered one of her boyfriends, has made unwelcome sexual advances towards her and it seems that everyone he meets is instantly sickened and repulsed by him, something that is articulated by Jean when he tells him: ‘In Indochina once, I saw a disgusting thing that made you sick to look at it. A centipede they called it, and you’re just like it. You’ve a filthy voice too, sounds like you’re crawling through slime.’ Central to Simon’s embodiment of such a character is his theatrical performance style. At one point he is found outside Panama’s, lurking in the shadows with blood on his hands. When he enters the bar he tries to act naturally, in a weak effort at dispelling the suspiciousness the other characters clearly have towards him. While they look at him mistrustfully, he makes small talk, discussing at one point the way that surgeons have clean hands despite having them in blood all day. As he says this, he grins, wriggling his fingers, betraying his fascination with blood. Whereas Simon’s performance emphasises Zabel’s grotesque corporeality,55 Morgan’s ethereal style reduces Nelly’s physicality, making her an embodiment of the transcendence and freedom that Jean seeks in order to escape his worldly pains, his haunting, vivid memories. Similarly, in Remorques, Catherine is placed in opposition to Yvonne (Madeleine Renaud), André’s wife. In contrast to the ethereal Catherine, Yvonne possesses a more down-to-earth body, which is created through a number of interrelated elements. Aside from her appearance in the first scene, which takes place at a wedding, she is entirely confined to her and André’s apartment, a location that is not only mundane but also claustrophobic. As Sellier writes, by the end of the film, ‘The conjugal home of Laurent has little by little changed into a prison.’56 This 190

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The poetry of poetic realism: Michèle Morgan

atmosphere is heightened through the use of numerous tight, static shots of Yvonne and André as they engage in heated arguments. Importantly, as a member of the prestigious theatre company the Comédie-Française, Renaud’s entry into the cinema was largely based upon her performance skills and – unlike Morgan – not on her physical appearance. As a result, Renaud possesses less glamorous features, which adds to her creation of the more down-to-earth Yvonne. But her theatrical background has further importance. Her acting style consists of control, precision and, because it was initially created for the stage, magnification, with her frequently striking grandiose poses and gestures. Not only does this emphasise her physicality, but her carefully measured movements and unambiguous style are used to suggest that she has a constrained, ordinary body, lacking in mystery. These aspects are fundamental to the film’s structural and thematic logic: by possessing these qualities, she embodies that which André seeks to escape. But despite the possibilities Gabin and Morgan offer each other for escape, there is, ultimately, no hope for either of them: both are too thoroughly defined by their fatalism; both end their films miserable or dead. As an exception, Le Récif de corail ends happily, though it is probably no coincidence that this film was a failure. As Bazin points out: ‘The public that swallows many affronts would undoubtedly feel they were being taken for a ride if screenwriters presented them with a happy ending for Jean Gabin.’57 The same could be said of the Gabin–Morgan film. Ultimately, although Gabin has the strength to help Morgan against criminals like Lucien and Zabel, and can take comfort from her transcendent femininity, he is powerless against the broader social and metaphysical forces that conspire against him. Similarly, as we have seen, Morgan’s films also work towards rather miserable endings. In both Le Quai des brumes and Remorques the final images of her depict her tear-strewn face, in both cases because of her loss of Gabin (in Le Quai des brumes he is shot dead; in Remorques he must return to his dying wife). It is their lack of hope, joint helplessness and dual fatalism that makes their romanticism so appealing and their ‘doubling’ so persuasive, ensuring their title: ‘the mythic couple of French cinema’. 191

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Morgan embodied a popular inflection of cinematic stardom on a par with Annabella and Darrieux. While Annabella harnessed cinema’s capacity for glamour and abstraction, and Darrieux drew upon its ability to capture rapid, expansive movement and authenticity, Morgan explores its potential to create mystery, purity and metaphysicality. As with Annabella and Darrieux, Morgan’s ‘cinematic’ nature meant she was associated with the new – she was a glamorous and fashionable modern woman. But most strikingly, particularly in comparison with Darrieux’s highly energetic vision of the modern woman, Morgan seemed to exist outside time and space as a poetic and transcendent form of femininity, as a fleeting manifestation of the eternal feminine, as impermanent as the mist in Le Quai des brumes. This particular variation in cinematic stardom made Morgan an ideal figure for poetic realism. Indeed, as I have argued, she was the female star of this movement. It also meant that Morgan possessed a form of femininity that was particularly relevant to France during the decline and eventual demise of the Popular Front when, for many people, traditional gender roles were being reaffirmed, and the individualism of the modern woman rejected.

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Conclusion

Through their contributions to the French film industry, its aesthetic pleasures and its ideological operations, the stars considered in this book are each important in their own right. However, beyond exploring the individual importance of each of them in turn, this book has also been concerned with their collective significance. I will now conclude by drawing together my main findings, presented in terms of a dual narrative: I will first explain the main features of this emerging form of stardom and its importance to the French cinema of the 1930s and beyond; I will then outline the significance of these stars to the period’s changing social context, particularly in relation to the Popular Front.

A stardom is born Although Annabella, Darrieux and Morgan were the most popular instances of cinematic stardom, there were other prominent examples, such as Simone Simon, who rose to fame in Lac aux dames (Marc Allégret, 1934) and starred in Renoir’s La Bête humaine, Jacqueline Laurent, one of the stars of Le Jour se lève, Lisette Lanvin, whose most famous starring role is in Jenny (Marcel Carné, 1936), and Renée Saint-Cyr, a star of Prisons de femmes. Others include Daniele Parola, Yvette Lebon and Josette Day, to name a few. What I call cinematic stardom was in large part a reaction against the period’s theatrical stardom, as well as an effort to create French stars who shared similarities with those of Hollywood. It is no coincidence that all three examples considered in this book were invited to Hollywood, as were Simone Simon and Jacqueline Laurent. This dialectic of imitating Hollywood and distinguishing itself from it was central to their significance. From their initial entry into the cinema as ‘discoveries’, the cinematic stars were embedded in the Hollywood mythology that 193

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‘stars are born’ and are ‘plucked from obscurity’ when their ‘star quality’ has been spotted. This entry had a profound effect on the nature of their personas, affecting, most obviously, the way they embodied stardom’s dichotomy of ordinariness/extraordinariness. Whereas the theatrical stars were famous largely for their acting skills and their status as renowned performers, the cinematic stars were seen to possess, as discoveries, an innate extraordinariness, with emphasis placed more on their identity as celebrated people. As a consequence, they were, like the Hollywood stars, highly individualistic, something that was emphasised by the fan magazine articles of the period that discussed in detail their physical beauty, their films and their private lives. This interest in them as individuals is also apparent from the way they are presented in their films, which interrogate their faces with close-ups (more frequently than was the case for the theatrical stars) and often depict them alone in private moments. These elements construct an intimate relationship with them, giving the impression that we are being granted privileged access to see them as they really are. While this process of greater individualisation makes them similar to Hollywood stars, it also stresses their Frenchness: as discoveries they were ordinary French women. This was emphasised by Annabella when she discussed her rise to fame: ‘This is the life of a little girl from La Varenne, who has become happy and who has had the chance to realise her life’s dream.’1 As with Hollywood stars, their innate extraordinariness stemmed in large part from their dazzling beauty. They were all exceptionally attractive in a simultaneously youthful, ‘classic’ and timeless way, and they possessed the slim bodies that conformed to the ideal advanced by Hollywood at this time. While they derived much of their glamour from their emphasis on image, this was another element that was given a French inflection. As we have seen, during this period many French films placed great importance on the imagistic properties of the medium. For instance, they were glamorised through photogénie, René Clair’s ‘abstract’ style, and the lyricism of poetic realism. In addition, they were able to draw upon a long-standing tradition of specifically French glamour. Castelli and Gundle argue that notions of glamour throughout the world have been led by 194

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developments in France.2 That the cinematic stars were following in this tradition is evident in the clothes that were chosen for them and in their association with glamorous Parisian landmarks: Annabella invokes the Champs-Élysées in a letter to Pour Vous readers sent from Hollywood (see p. 111); Darrieux wears clothing designed by Maison Alix in Mademoiselle ma mère; Morgan was dressed by Chanel in Le Quai des brumes. In this respect, French stars could lead developments in international stardom. As Dyer discusses, Hollywood performers would often seek to enhance their glamour through the invocation of French chic (he mentions Chanel), something the French cinematic stars did effortlessly.3 Consequently, they facilitated the extension of the long tradition of French glamour into the global image-based media age. Moreover, by performing exclusively in the cinema, the cinematic stars, like their Hollywood counterparts, seemed to exist in a separate realm, cut off from the banalities of the real world. Because they were not viewed in the flesh, on stage, they attained a distinct ‘distance’ from their fans. However, even this ‘elsewhere-ness’ was a French ‘elsewhere-ness’, constructed from their appearances in French fan magazines and French films. We can see from this emphasis on physical appearance, idealisation and glamour – notions traditionally associated with femininity – why cinematic stardom lent itself to the creation of female stars. While there were male equivalents, it was a form that was dominated by women. However, we have also seen that it lent itself to the expression of a range of femininities. Here it again shows itself to be distinctly hybrid in nature, combining French and American ideas. One of the main reasons why the cinematic stars possessed international qualities is that they were all examples of the modern woman. Indeed, their stardom is ideally suited to the expression of types of femininity that were seen as novel and to some extent ‘progressive’ at the time. For one thing, because they were created so quickly, their personas were able to draw upon the most up-to-date elements of contemporary culture. This contrasted with the formation of the theatrical stars’ personas, which were frequently based upon the long build-up of stage careers and traditional theatrical types. So, by being more ‘of the moment’ the cinematic stars rapidly assimilated notions of femininity advanced 195

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by Hollywood and the international modern woman. They were also well suited to depictions of the modern woman because it was a femininity that was inextricably bound to the cinematic, placing great emphasis on glamour and mobility, qualities they had in abundance. As modern women they attained varying degrees of empowerment. To some extent they harnessed the medium’s movement to create spontaneous, energetic and highly mobile visions of femininity. Also, their glamorisation would challenge the notion that a woman’s place is in the domestic sphere. Most importantly, through the cinematic stars this modernity was given a French inflection. While they drew upon international notions of the modern woman, they were important examples of how to be a French version of this: they reacted against traditional ideas of French femininity and wore up-to-date French fashion (Chanel, for example). Cinematic stardom, however, should not be reduced to its ability to express the modern; it was also easily mobilised to represent the traditional. To some extent they drew upon universal notions of traditional femininity; while the cinematic could glamorise their beauty in a potentially emancipating way, it could also of course reduce them to objects and female stereotypes. Indeed, cinematic stardom was very malleable and could easily be shaped and crafted to meet the demands of (usually male) filmmakers. Their nuanced acting, often combined with close-ups, meant that their passivity and stasis could be intensified. These elements were bolstered by specifically French notions of traditional femininity. In particular, they were ideal for portraying ‘daughters’ in the decade’s quasi-incestuous narratives. Their youthful beauty and understated acting facilitated their portrayals of the delicate women that the more authoritative, theatrically trained ‘fathers’ would prey upon. Thus, their youth itself was put to ideological use. Also, because of their ‘timeless’ quality, they helped to make historically grounded French female types – such as the midinette, the jeune fille and the transcendent woman (in some cases linked to both the historical figure and the saintly myth of Joan of Arc) – seem like ahistorical, permanent features of French life. So far I have been outlining the main features of cinematic stardom. However, in this book I have also been concerned with how 196

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this type of stardom emerged and why – what were the various functions it fulfilled? Here it is first of all important to note the key role it played in extending the expressive repertoire of the period’s cinema. In contrast to the theatrical stars who were ideal for filmed theatre, these stars were able to realise other possibilities. Their intensified individualism was central to a cinema that was becoming increasingly psychological and drawing more upon novels as source material. It is no coincidence that they starred in films by Gance, Clair, L’Herbier, Duvivier, Litvak, Carné, Feyder and Renoir, filmmakers who opposed the period’s filmed theatre. Frequently used in combination with, and in contrast to, theatrical stars, they expanded the expressive possibilities of the cinema at this time through their photogenic looks and their naturalistic, nuanced and sometimes spontaneous-looking performance styles. In bringing cinematic qualities to these films they also played a symbolic function, helping these filmmakers in their attempts to stave off the ‘threat’ of filmed theatre. This is particularly clear when we consider the extent to which they embodied properties of the film medium – its image-based nature, its mobility, its metaphysicality. In this respect, their ‘purity’ can be seen as an extension of these directors’ desire for a ‘pure cinema’. However, cinematic stardom was not just created by these few directors and its purpose was not solely to support their aesthetic projects. It was produced more generally by the French film industry, for which it represented important commercial possibilities. As a popular form of stardom, it assisted the industry in its competition with other domestic forms of entertainment, such as the theatre and the cabaret, which were experiencing a rapid decline in popularity during the course of the 1930s. It also contributed to the industry’s competition with Hollywood. Despite the fact that France had been the world’s leading filmmaking nation before the First World War, Hollywood had of course by this time attained its position as the film capital of the world. Because cinematic stardom shared the elevation, glamour and cinematic aura of Hollywood stardom, it enhanced the French film industry and helped it in its on-going battle to challenge Hollywood in its global filmmaking hegemony as well as in the domestic market. Moreover, the cinematic stars provided a 197

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distinctly different product to that of Hollywood. As writers on stardom have discussed, a key part of the appeal of stars is that they offer the opportunity for audience engagement that consists simultaneously of fantasy and identification. For example, fans may fantasise about being as attractive, witty or charismatic as the performers they idolise, but, at the same time, they will compare themselves with them, searching for similarities such as shared features of appearance or personality. So while Hollywood stars of the 1930s represented a very appealing set of ideal, elevated qualities that audiences could imagine possessing, the potential for a nuanced form of identification would be less strong. Of course, there would still be much potential for French fans to recognise themselves in the Hollywood performers they idolised, but such possibilities were greater with France’s cinematic stars. Indeed, the example of Annabella shows that, in order for these stars to remain popular with French audiences, it was important that they should maintain a close connection with the nation. By being associated with specifically French, and often regional, culture, the theatrical stars would be popular figures of identification, but they would lack the ‘stellar’ quality associated with Hollywood, and thus be less potent as figures of fantasy. The cinematic stars provided a perfect synthesis: idealised Frenchness. Because they improved on the appeal that Hollywood stars represented to domestic audiences, they rose in popularity over the period considered, while their Hollywood counterparts descended.4 Beyond its significance for French audiences, cinematic stardom helped the French film industry to reach out to other markets. Indeed, many French films of the 1930s were internationally successful, the most notable being Mayerling, which had a lengthy run in the USA. The fact that this film starred Darrieux is indicative of the value the cinematic stars had for such films. Owing to their similarities with Hollywood figures they were able to present international audiences with a form of stardom with which they were familiar. Indeed, the fact that they were given contracts at Hollywood studios highlights that they were seen to have the potential to appeal to audiences beyond France. But this didn’t mean their Frenchness was unimportant to international audiences. On the contrary, this was a significant part of their 198

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export value. They were marketed internationally as embodiments of idealised French femininity, possessing France’s world famous glamour, sophistication and chic. As a consequence, they were part of more general developments in the internationalisation of French cinema that aimed to combine Hollywood glamour with popular notions of Frenchness. This is a strategy employed by the Cannes Film Festival, which was first envisioned in the late 1930s and would prove successful in the postwar period.5 Beyond the 1930s the significance of the stars considered in this book underwent some changes. While Annabella’s stardom began to decline towards the end of the 1930s, both Darrieux (who turned ninety-six years old in 2013) and Morgan (who turned ninety-three) have enjoyed extremely long careers and each has over sixty films in her filmography. Morgan last appeared on cinema screens in 1990 in Stanno tutti bene (Giuseppe Tornatore), but has taken a number of television roles since then, the most recent being in La Rivale (Alain Nahum, 1999). Darrieux has appeared in a number of contemporary films, such as 8 femmes (François Ozon, 2002) and – as a voice – Persepolis (Vincent Paronnaud and Marjane Satrapi, 2007). When in 1937 she referred with modesty to her ‘already too long career’ she had clearly not anticipated the fact that she would still be making films seventy years later.6 But her and Morgan’s stardom changed over the years. In many ways they continued to draw upon elements that made them famous in the 1930s; even as they began to age, they were able to draw upon their glamour and timeless beauty, and they appeared in a number of other Hollywood and international film productions. However, they gradually ceased to be synonymous with the new. This was particularly striking when they appeared in the 1950s in the lavish films of the tradition of quality. For many critics, particularly those of Cahiers du cinéma, these films were the antithesis of the modern cinema that was needed (and which would soon be provided by the French New Wave). Both Darrieux and Morgan also shifted away from the ‘cinematic’ by performing in the theatre. Morgan acted in just four plays between 1978 and 1993, but Darrieux has made many stage appearances. Although she was in one play in the 1930s – Jeux dangereux in 1937 – it was in the postwar years that her stage career truly developed. In 1957 she even acted 199

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in Sacha Guitry’s Faisons un rêve, alongside Robert Lamoureux and Louis de Funès, a play synonymous with the theatrical stardom of the 1930s, as discussed in Chapter 1. While this marked a shift from their work in the 1930s, they only began performing on stage as a result of their film careers and they brought their cinematic ‘auras’ to their theatrical roles. While the stardom of Annabella, Darrieux and Morgan went through changes in the post-war years, other cinematic stars emerged. Since the 1930s the French film industry has successfully produced many examples of this type, the most famous being Brigitte Bardot and Catherine Deneuve. Like the stars of the 1930s, Bardot and Deneuve were associated with cinematic mobility and glamour, and combined the French with the international, the modern with the traditional. Their timeless femininity was harnessed when they were each used as the model for the bust of Marianne that is displayed in French town halls (Bardot in 1969 and Deneuve in 1989). Bardot’s rise to fame was also influenced, like Morgan’s, by Marc Allégret, who offered her a part in a film after Roger Vadim spotted her on the cover of an issue of Elle in 1950. Although the film was unrealised, it was this offer that encouraged Bardot to pursue a career in the cinema. Deneuve is also a clear inheritor of the cinematic stardom of the 1930s and when she first rose to fame was even compared to Darrieux. Indeed, her place in this lineage has been narrativised through her casting as Darrieux’s daughter in no fewer than five films: L’Homme à femmes (Jacques-Gérard Cornu, 1960), Les Demoiselles de Rochefort (Jacques Demy, 1967), Le Lieu du crime (André Téchiné, 1986), 8 femmes and Persepolis. Since Bardot and Deneuve many more examples have emerged, such as Emmanuelle Béart, Sophie Marceau and more recently Virginie Ledoyen, Eva Green and Ludivine Sagnier, among others. Such stardom continues to play an important role in the French film industry’s domestic and international competition with American film: it shows that France can produce stars who are distinctly French, but who are as elevated and exportable as those of Hollywood, whereas theatrically based performers, such as Josiane Balasko or Anémone, remain domestic in reach.

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Cinematic stardom, femininity and the Popular Front This book has not only shown that the cinematic stars shared and helped develop a similar type of stardom; it has also emphasised that each star embodied different inflections of it. The variations in cinematic stardom explored in this book tell a story of shifting notions of French femininity in the 1930s. Through Annabella, at the beginning of the decade, it was largely in the service of tradition. To some extent her beauty and glamour injected modernity into her persona, but these elements also served to idealise her embodiment of an old-fashioned and distinctly pre-First World War notion of French womanhood – the midinette. In the mid1930s, through Darrieux, it was put to different ideological use. While as an innocent jeune fille she retained some of the passivity and vulnerability of Annabella, she was on the whole more empowered, independent and mobile. She portrayed a strong modern woman, who would challenge men and male authority, with energy, determination and wit. With Morgan we see another shift in femininity and another set of uses to which cinematic stardom was put. As another prominent example of the modern woman, Morgan retained aspects of the independence and mobility of Darrieux. At the same time, as a transcendent and metaphysical female, she represented a more regressive step: her main purpose was not to succeed in the male-dominated, public world, but to provide men with purity, redemption and inspiration. Taken together, then, these stars provide valuable insight into changes in how French femininity was imagined and represented in France in the 1930s. I have stressed that, as the femininities change, cinematic stardom is being channelled into the expression of a range of ideological positions. It is worth considering for a moment how the ‘cinematic’ participates in such shifts in order to highlight the aesthetic and ideological versatility of this type of stardom. For instance, one element that was central to it, and which has huge scope for variety, is the stars’ physical appearance – the different types of beauty they possessed played a central role in the narrative of changing French femininity in the 1930s. At the beginning

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of the decade, Annabella’s delicacy and petite frame facilitate the expression of her child-like passivity and vulnerability. Darrieux maintains some of this vulnerability, through her wide-eyed, innocent quality, but this is combined with her ‘modern body’ and mobility. She is taller and slimmer than Annabella, elements that are indicative of a more active and mobile life. Morgan’s tall, slim physique suggests a continuation of this trend, but it also conveys her fragility, which combined with her mysterious, pure white face is part of her ‘transcendent’ femininity. This narrative is also conveyed through the various manifestations of cinematic acting advanced by these stars, from Annabella’s gentle, delicate style, to Darrieux’s more mobile, spontaneous and authentic acting, and finally to Morgan’s naturalistic performances, which are sometimes fluid, sometimes statuesque, but always filled with a sense of the enigmatic. It can even be seen in their ideolects: at the beginning of the decade Annabella plays with her hands with a downcast gaze; in the mid-1930s Darrieux pouts with dissatisfaction and aggressively stamps her foot; as the 1930s draw to a close, Morgan looks sadly off-camera into the distance. This narrative is strongly linked to changes in the broader social context. Such a connection is unsurprising; as a form of stardom that could be produced rapidly, it was able to keep up with the changing times and there was greater potential for it to be in tune with shifts in notions of femininity. This made these stars better able to respond to changes in 1930s France than the theatrical stars, whose personas were frequently based upon old-fashioned stage types (and often in plays written several decades earlier). The changing femininities of Annabella, Darrieux and Morgan are also symptomatic of social change because, while there were many cinematic stars of the 1930s, they were the most popular. They were the ones who responded most to the needs, desires and fantasies of audiences at those times – needs, desires and fantasies that were created by the broader world that these audiences were living in. In particular, the shifts in cinematic stardom I have been outlining in this book correspond with the rise and fall of the Popular Front. In the early 1930s Annabella embodied the context against which it would react, as, within her persona, modernity is overpowered by her nostalgic, old-fashioned 202

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femininity. This fantasy desire for the past is the expression of a society resisting change and modernisation – at this time France was one of the least technologically developed nations in Western Europe. In the middle of the decade, the Popular Front, as well as the right-wing parties and fascists that it challenged, struggled to end this stasis and stagnation. Within such a context Darrieux performed an important ideological operation, reconciling the period’s continuing conservatism with her modern, emancipated femininity. She captured the period’s joie de vivre, hope and sense of change, and embodied the challenge to established authority that defined this moment, evidenced by striking workers and increasingly emancipated women. Michèle Morgan’s ethereal femininity rose to prominence in the postPopular Front period. As politics moved back to the right, and patriarchy sought to fight the challenges to its power brought about by the Popular Front and strengthen itself in anticipation of war with Germany, the situation for women declined. In terms of legislature, this is indicated by the introduction in 1939 of the starkly patriarchal Code de la famille. Although Morgan is afforded some agency, her sublimated femininity is indicative of the fact that women’s moment for modernity and emancipation, brought about by the Popular Front, had passed; it would take the huge trauma of the collapse of France during the war for it to resurface again. While the cinematic stars did not explicitly or in any sense directly represent the events of the Popular Front, as Renoir for instance did, they nevertheless acted as revealing symptoms of these events, in all manifestations of their careers and screen roles – in the date and manner of their emergence, in the narratives of their films, in their looks, clothes and performance styles, in their international resonance at the time, and in their audience reception. The cinematic stars, and Annabella, Danielle Darrieux and Michèle Morgan in particular, help us see better the links between aesthetic choices, representational possibilities and the political events of the social context, which illuminates important connections between France and its cinema during the 1930s.

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Appendix 1: Actor popularity tables

In the following tables, French actors appear in bold. Where a number appears in brackets, this indicates a star’s overall position out of male and female actors. Table 2 Actor popularity 1929–1935

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

Ciné-miroir Top Actors 1929

Cinémonde Best in the World 1933

Ciné-miroir Prince Charming 1933

Ciné-miroir Nicest Smile 1935

Charlie Chaplin Ramon Navarro Douglas Fairbanks Emil Jannings Adolphe Menjou Lon Chaney Pierre Blanchar Ivan Mosjoukine Jean Angelo John Gilbert Harold Lloyd Jaque Catelain Charles Vanel Ronald Colman Conrad Veidt André Roanne Buster Keaton Jean Murat Lucien Dalsace Léon Mathot Georges Biscot Ivan Petrovitch Antonio Moreno Ric Cortez

Charlie Chaplin Greta Garbo Marlene Dietrich Charles Boyer Ronald Colman Mae West Ramon Navarro Annabella Pierre Blanchar Claire Brooks Cohan Irene Dunne Fernandel Florelle Cary Grant

Henri Garat Jean Murat Charles Boyer Pierre Blanchar André Roanne Jean Véber Fernand Gravey Richard-Willm André Burgère Roland Toutain

Jeanette MacDonald Annabella Gaby Morlay Suzy Vernon Marie Glory Marlene Dietrich Claudette Colbert Lilian Harvey Edwige Feuillère Renée Saint-Cyr Norma Shearer Gina Manès Colette Darfeuil Madge Evans Gloria Swanson

Statistics taken from: Crisp, Genre, Myth, and Convention in the French Cinema, p. 268. Crisp provides the following information about these tables: ‘The first column results from a poll to which 200,000 readers responded, covering French and foreign male actors; the second from a survey of readers to identify the best actors and actresses in the world; the third from a contest set up by the Almanach Ciné Miroir to identify the most loved French young leading men; the fourth from a poll in which 16,398 readers voted, nominally to identify the most beautiful smile, but effectively to rank French and foreign young leading ladies.’

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Actor popularity tables Table 3

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

Female actor popularity 1936–1938

1936

1937

1938

Gaby Morlay (7) Danielle Darrieux (9) Annabella (10) Shirley Temple Greta Garbo Elvire Popesco Marlene Dietrich Françoise Rosay Jeanette MacDonald Madeleine Renaud Marcelle Chantal Marguerite Moréno Suzy Vernon Renée Saint-Cyr Edwige Feuillère Véra Korène Marie Bell Simone Simon Martha Eggerth Irène Dunne Sylvia Sydney

Danielle Darrieux (2) Annabella (7) Greta Garbo (8) Shirley Temple Edwige Feuillère Gaby Morlay Marlene Dietrich Elvire Popesco Véra Korène Françoise Rosay Deanna Durbin Claudette Colbert Viviane Romance Mireille Balin Joan Crawford

Viviane Romance (2) Danielle Darrieux (4) Yvonne Printemps (8) Michèle Morgan (10) Corinne Luchaire (11) Annabella Elvire Popesco Greta Garbo Edwige Feuillère Françoise Rosay Annie Ducaux Simone Simon Shirley Temple Gaby Morlay

These results originally appeared in the journal La Cinématographie Française. Statistics compiled from: Crisp, Genre, Myth, and Convention in the French Cinema, p. 269, and GuillaumeGrimaud, Le Cinéma du Front Populaire, p. 196.

Table 4

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

Male actor popularity 1936–1938

1936

1937

1938

Charles Boyer (1) Pierre Richard-Willm (2) Fernandel (3) Harry Baur (4) Lucien Baroux (5) Victor Francen (6) Tino Rossi (8) Jules Berry (11) Charlie Chaplin (12) Raimu Jean Gabin Pierre Blanchar Pierre Larquey Bach Sacha Guitry

Fernandel (1) Jean Gabin (3) Raimu (4) Charles Boyer (5) Tino Rossi (6) Pierre Richard-Willm (9) Sacha Guitry (10) Harry Baur (11) Victor Francen (12) Clark Gable Robert Taylor Jules Berry Pierre Larquey Eric Von Stroheim Pierre Blanchar

Jean Gabin (1) Fernandel (3) Louis Jouvet (5) Raimu (6) Pierre Fresnay (7) Charles Boyer (9) Sacha Guitry (12) Eric Von Stroheim Tino Rossi Michel Simon Jules Berry Charles Vanel Lucien Baroux Gary Cooper Pierre Richard-Willm Continued 205

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The French Screen Goddess Table 4

16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29.

Continued

1936

1937

1938

Jean Murat Fernand Gravey Clark Gable Gary Cooper Charles Vanel Victor Boucher Signoret Louis Jouvet Pierre Fresnay Constant Rémy André Lefaur Henri Rollan Jean-Pierre Aumont Franchot Tone

Jean Murat Charles Vanel Bach Pierre Fresnay Paul Muni Gary Cooper Fernand Gravey William Powell Lucien Baroux Errol Flynn

William Powell Fernand Gravey Bach Victor Francen Jean-Pierre Aumont Errol Flynn Duvallès James Cagney Pierre Larquey

These results originally appeared in the journal La Cinématographie Française. Statistics compiled from: Crisp, Genre, Myth, and Convention in the French Cinema, p. 269, and GuillaumeGrimaud, Le Cinéma du Front Populaire, p. 195.

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Appendix 2: Film popularity table

Table 5

Film popularity 1936–1938

1936

1937

1938

1.

César

La Grande illusion

2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

L’Appel du silence Le Roi Mayerling Veille d’armes Modern Times

7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

Marinella Les Bas-fonds La Porte du large Un de la légion L’Équipage Le Mioche Koenigsmark

14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

Baccara Messieurs les ronds de cuir Les Deux gosses Le Roman d’un tricheur La Fille du bois maudit Michel Strogoff Jim La Houlette

Ignace Un carnet de bal Les Perles de la couronne Abus de confiance Double crime sur la ligne Maginot Pépé le Moko Naples au baiser de feu 3 Artilleurs au pensionnat Les Rois du sport Camille Marthe Richard Ces dames aux chapeaux verts Nitchevo Regain La Mort du cygne L’Homme à abattre L’Alibi L’Habit vert Le Messager

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs Le Quai des brumes Katia La Femme du boulanger Alerte en Méditerranée The Adventures of Robin Hood Barnabé La Maison du Maltais Trois valses Prison sans barreaux Prison de femmes Entrée des artistes L’Étrange Monsieur Victor Le Schpountz Gibraltar Mon curé chez les riches Légions d’honneur Adrienne Lecouvreur Marie Walewska Orage

Statistics taken from: Guillaume-Grimaud, Le Cinéma du Front Populaire, p. 197.

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Appendix 3: Filmographies for Annabella, Darrieux and Morgan

Although all three stars continued making films beyond the 1930s, only films relevant to the period considered in this book are listed.

Annabella (1920s–1930s) Napoléon vu par Abel Gance / Abel Gance’s Napoleon (Abel Gance, 1927) Maldone / Misdeal (Jean Grémillon, 1928) Trois jeunes filles nues (Robert Boudrioz, 1929) La Baracolle d’amour (Carl Froelich and Henry Roussell, 1930) La Maison de la flèche (Henri Fescourt, 1930) Romance à l’inconnue (René Barberis, 1930) Deux fois vingt ans (Charles-Félix Tavano, 1930) Autour d’une enquête (Henri Chomette and Robert Siodmak, 1931) Le Million / The Million (René Clair, 1931) Un soir de rafle / Dragnet Night (Carmine Gallone, 1931) Son altesse l’amour / His Highness Love (Robert Péguy and Erich Schmidt, 1931) Paris-Méditerranée / Companion Wanted (Joe May, 1931) Quatorze juillet / Bastille Day (René Clair, 1932) Prima dragoste (Paul Fejos, 1932) Marie, légende hongroise (Paul Fejos, 1932) Un fils d’Amérique / A Son from America (Carmine Gallone, 1932) Tavaszi zápor / Spring Shower (Paul Fejos, 1932) Gardez le sourire (Paul Fejos and René Sti, 1933) La Bataille (Nicolas Farkas and Viktor Tourjansky, 1933) Mademoiselle Josette, ma femme (André Berthomieu, 1933) Sonnenstrahl / Ray of Sunshine (Paul Fejos, 1933) Caravane (Erik Charell, 1934) Les Nuits moscovites / Moscow Nights (Alexis Granowsky, 1934) Napoléon Bonaparte (Abel Gance, 1935) Veille d’armes / Sacrifice of Honor (Marcel L’Herbier, 1935) Varieté (Nicolas Farkas, 1935) 208

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Filmographies for Annabella, Darrieux and Morgan La Bandera / Escape from Yesterday (Julien Duvivier, 1935) L’Équipage / Flight into Darkness (Anatole Litvak, 1935) Variétés (Nicolas Farkas, 1935) Anne-Marie (Raymond Bernard, 1936) Wings of the Morning (Harold D. Schuster, 1937) Under the Red Robe (Victor Sjöström, 1937) La Citadelle du silence / The Citadel of Silence (Marcel L’Herbier, 1937) Dinner at the Ritz (Harold D. Schuster, 1937) The Baroness and the Butler (Walter Lang, 1938) Suez (Allan Dwan, 1938) Hôtel du Nord (Marcel Carné, 1938) Bridal Suite (Wilhelm Thiele, 1939)

Danielle Darrieux (1930s) Le Bal (Wilhelm Thiele, 1931) Coquecigrole (André Berthomieu, 1931) Panurge (Michel Bernheim, 1932) Le Coffret de laque / The Lacquered Box (Jean Kemm, 1932) Château de rêve / Dream Castle (Géza von Bolváry, 1933) Voyages de noces / Honeymoon Trip (Germain Fried and Erich Schmidt, 1933) Volga en flammes / Volga in Flames (Viktor Tourjansky, 1933) L’Or dans la rue (Kurt Bernhardt, 1934) Mauvaise graine / Bad Seed (Billy Wilder, 1934) Le Secret d’une nuit (Félix Gandéra, 1934) Mon coeur t’appelle (Carmine Gallone and Serge Véber, 1934) La Crise est finie (Robert Siodmak, 1934) L’Auberge du Petit-Dragon (Jean de Limur, 1934) Mademoiselle Mozart / Meet Miss Mozart (Yvan Noé, 1935) Dédé (René Guissart, 1935) Le Contrôleur des wagons-lits / Inspector of the Red Cars (Richard Eichberg, 1935) Quelle drôle de gosse! (Léo Joannon, 1935) J’aime toutes les femmes / I Like All the Women (Carl Lamac, 1935) Le Domino vert / The Green Domino (Henri Decoin and Herbert Selpin, 1935) Port-Arthur / I Give My Life (Nicolas Farkas, 1936) Un mauvais garçon (Jean Boyer, 1936) Mayerling (Anatole Litvak, 1936) Tarass Boulba / Taras Bulba (Alexis Granowsky, 1936) Club de femmes (Jacques Deval, 1936) Mademoiselle ma mère (Henri Decoin, 1937) Abus de confiance / Abused Confidence (Henri Decoin, 1937) Retour à l’aube / She Returned at Dawn (Henri Decoin, 1938) The Rage of Paris (Henry Koster, 1938) Katia (Maurice Tourneur, 1938) 209

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The French Screen Goddess

Michèle Morgan (1930s) Une fille à papa (René Guissart, 1935) Mademoiselle Mozart / Meet Miss Mozart (Yvan Noé, 1935) Le Mioche / Forty Little Mothers (Léonide Moguy, 1936) Gigolette (Yvan Noé, 1936) Mes tantes et moi (Yvan Noé, 1936) La Vie parisienne / The Parisian Life (Robert Siodmak, 1936) Gribouille (Marc Allégret, 1937) Orage (Marc Allégret, 1937) Le Quai des brumes / Port of Shadows (Marcel Carné, 1938) Le Récif de corail / Coral Reefs (Maurice Gleize, 1938) L’Entraîneuse (Albert Valentin, 1938) La Loi du nord (Jacques Feyder, 1939) Remorques / Stormy Waters (Jean Grémillon, 1939–41)

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Notes

Introduction 1. For example, see Appendix 1, Tables 2 and 3. 2. Mary Lea Bandy, ed., Rediscovering French Film (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1983); Robin Buss, The French Through Their Films (London: Batsford, 1988); Roy Armes, French Cinema (London: Secker & Warburg, 1985); Raymond Chirat, Le Cinéma français des années 30 (Paris: Hatier, 1983); John W. Martin, The Golden Age of French Cinema, 1929–1939 (Boston: Twayne, 1983); Alan Williams, Republic of Images: A History of French Filmmaking (Cambridge, MA; London: Harvard University Press, 1992). 3. On Jean Renoir, see for example: André Bazin, Jean Renoir, trans. by W.W. Halsey II and William H. Simon (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1973); Christopher Faulkner, The Social Cinema of Jean Renoir (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986); Martin O’Shaughnessy, Jean Renoir (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000); François Poulle, Renoir 1938 ou Jean Renoir pour rien? (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1969); Daniel Serceau, Jean Renoir: La sagesse du plaisir (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1985); Alexander Sesonske, Jean Renoir: The French Films, 1924–1939 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1980). 4. Raymond Chirat, Catalogue des films français de long métrage: Films sonores de fiction, 1929–1939 (Brussels: Cinémathèque Royale de Belgique, 1981). 5. Ginette Vincendeau, ‘French Cinema in the 1930s: Social Text and Context of a Popular Entertainment Medium’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of East Anglia, 1985). 6. Colin Crisp, The Classic French Cinema, 1930–1960 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993). 7. Susan Hayward, French National Cinema (London: Routledge, 1993); Alastair Phillips, City of Darkness, City of Light: Émigré Filmmakers in Paris 1929–1939 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2004). 8. Charles O’Brien, Cinema’s Conversion to Sound: Technology and Film Style in France and the U.S. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005). 9. Colin Crisp, Genre, Myth, and Convention in the French Cinema, 1929–1939 (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002); Phillips, City of Darkness, City of Light; Keith Reader, ‘The Geography and Topography of French Cinema’, in The French Cinema Book, ed. by Michael Temple and Michael Witt (London: British Film Institute, 2004) pp. 153–161; Ginette Vincendeau, ‘From the Bal Populaire to the Casino: Class and Leisure in French Films of the 1930s’, Nottingham French Studies, 31:4 (1992), 52–70; David Henry Slavin, Colonial Cinema and Imperial France, 1919–1939: White Blind Spots, Male Fantasies, Settler Myths (Baltimore; London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2001). 10. Noël Burch and Geneviève Sellier, La drôle de guerre des sexes du cinéma français, 1930–1956 (Paris: Nathan, 1996); Gender and French Cinema, ed. by Alex Hughes and James S. Williams (Oxford: Berg, 2001); Ginette Vincendeau, ‘Daddy’s Girls (Oedipal Narratives in 1930s French Films)’, Iris, 8 (1988), 70–81. 211

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Notes to p. 3 11. Edgar Morin, The Stars, trans. by Richard Howard (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2005) (first published in French as Les Stars in 1957); Richard Dyer, Stars, new ed. with supplementary chapter by Paul McDonald (London: British Film Institute, 1998) (first published in 1979). 12. Anthologies on stardom include: Contemporary Hollywood Stardom, ed. by Thomas Austin and Martin Barker (London: Arnold, 2003); Stardom: Industry of Desire, ed. by Christine Gledhill (London: Routledge, 1991); Stars: The Film Reader, ed. by Lucy Fischer and Marcia Landy (New York; London: Routledge, 2004); Stardom and Celebrity: A Reader, ed. by Su Holmes and Sean Redmond (London: Sage, 2007); Film Stars: Hollywood and Beyond, ed. by Andy Willis (Manchester; New York: Manchester University Press, 2004). 13. Alexander Walker, Stardom: The Hollywood Phenomenon (London: Joseph, 1970). 14. Popular European Cinema, ed. by Richard Dyer and Ginette Vincendeau (London: Routledge, 1992). 15. On European stars, for example, see: Journeys of Desire: European Actors in Hollywood, a Critical Companion, ed. by Alastair Phillips and Ginette Vincendeau (London: British Film Institute, 2006); British Stars and Stardom: From Alma Taylor to Sean Connery, ed. by Bruce Babington (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2001); Geoffrey Macnab, Searching For Stars: Stardom and Screen Acting in British Cinema (London: Cassell, 2000); Erica Carter, Dietrich’s Ghosts: The Sublime and the Beautiful in Third Reich Film (London: British Film Institute, 2004); Antje Ascheid, Hitler’s Heroines: Stardom and Womanhood in Nazi Cinema (Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press, 2003); Chris Perriam, Stars and Masculinities in Spanish Cinema: From Banderas to Bardem (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003); Marcia Landy, Stardom, Italian Style: Screen Performance and Personality in Italian Cinema (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2008). 16. André Bazin, ‘The Destiny of Jean Gabin’, in Rediscovering French Film, ed. by Bandy, pp. 123–125. 17. Ginette Vincendeau, ‘Community, Nostalgia and the Spectacle of Masculinity’, Screen, 26:6 (1985), 18–38; Claude Gauteur and Ginette Vincendeau, Jean Gabin: Anatomie d’un mythe (Paris: Nouveau Monde éditions, 2006) (first published in 1993 by Nathan). 18. Ginette Vincendeau, Stars and Stardom in French Cinema (London; New York: Continuum, 2000). 19. For example: Guy Austin, Stars in Modern French Film (London: Arnold, 2003); Susan Hayward, Simone Signoret: The Star as Cultural Sign (New York; London: Continuum, 2004); Phil Powrie with Éric Rebillard, Pierre Batcheff and Stardom in 1920s French Cinema (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2009); From Perversion to Purity: The Stardom of Catherine Deneuve, ed. by Lisa Downing and Sue Harris (Manchester; New York: Manchester University Press, 2007); Stardom in Postwar France, ed. by John Gaffney and Diana Holmes, (Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2007). 20. Françoise Ducout, Séductrices du cinéma français 1936–1956 (Paris: Henri Veyrier, 1978). 21. Olivier Barrot and Raymond Chirat, Inoubliables!: Visages du cinéma français, 1930– 1950 (Paris: Calmann-Lévy, 1986). 22. For example: Keith Reader, ‘“Mon cul est intersexuel?”: Arletty’s Performance of Gender’, in Gender and French Cinema, ed. by Hughes and Williams, pp. 63–76; Eve Stehlin, ‘Gueule d’amour or the Eviction of the Femme Fatale: Towards the Homosexual Couple’, Studies in French Cinema, 5:1 (2005), 37–47; Raphaëlle Moine, ‘The Star as the “Great Man” in French Cinema: The Example of Sacha Guitry’, Studies in French Cinema, 4:1 (2004), 77–86; Kelley Conway, Chanteuse 212

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Notes to pp.3–10 in the City: The Realist Singer in French Film (Berkeley; London: University of California Press, 2004); Ginette Vincendeau, ‘The Mise-en-scène of Suffering: French Chanteuses réalistes’, New Formations, 3 (1987), 107–128. 23. Burch and Sellier, La drôle de guerre des sexes du cinéma français. 24. There is a chapter on Annabella in: William M. Drew, At the Centre of the Frame: Leading Ladies of the Twenties and Thirties (Maryland: Vestal Press, 1999). 25. Danielle Darrieux, Danielle Darrieux: Filmographie commentée par elle-même, with the collaboration of Jean-Pierre Ferrière (Paris: Ramsay Cinéma, 2003). 26. Michèle Morgan, With Those Eyes, with the collaboration of Marcelle Routier, trans. by Oliver Coburn (London: W.H. Allen, 1978). 27. Henry-Jean Servat, Les Trois glorieuses: Danielle Darrieux, Michèle Morgan and Micheline Presle (Paris: Pygmalion, 2008). 28. Ginette Vincendeau, ‘Melodramatic Realism: On Some French Women’s Films in the 1930s’, Screen, 30:3 (1989), 51–65; Crisp, Genre, Myth, and Convention in the French Cinema. I have also published an article on Morgan, which is based on research undertaken for Chapter 5 of this book: Jonathan Driskell, ‘The Female “Metaphysical” Body in Poetic Realist Film’, Studies in French Cinema, 8:1 (2008), 57–73. 29. Alastair Phillips, ‘Changing Bodies/Changing Voices: Success and Failure in Hollywood in the Early Sound Era’, Screen, 43:3 (2002), 187–199. 30. Geneviève Sellier, ‘Danielle Darrieux, Michèle Morgan and Micheline Presle in Hollywood: The Threat to French Identity’, Screen, 43:2 (2002), 201–214. 31. Judith Mayne, ‘Danielle Darrieux, French Female Stardom and the Occupation’, Studies in French Cinema, 10:2 (2010), 169–187. 32. See Appendix 1, Tables 2, 3 and 4. 33. Elizabeth Grottle Strebel, French Social Cinema of the Nineteen Thirties: A Cinematographic Expression of Popular Front Consciousness (New York: Arno Press, 1980), p. 107. 34. Crisp, The Classic French Cinema. 35. Ibid., p. 225. 36. Ibid., p. 224. 37. Ibid., p. 225. 38. Vincendeau, Stars and Stardom in French Cinema, p. 1. 39. Marcel Pagnol, ‘Cinematurgy of Paris’, in French Film Theory and Criticism: A History/Anthology, 1907–1939, Volume II, 1929–1939, ed. by Richard Abel (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), pp. 129–136 (p. 133). 40. Ginette Vincendeau, ‘The Popular Cinema of the Popular Front’, in La Vie est à nous!: French Cinema of the Popular Front, 1935–1938, ed. by Keith Reader and Ginette Vincendeau (London: British Film Institute, 1986) pp. 73–102 (p. 90). 41. Burch and Sellier, La drôle de guerre des sexes du cinéma français; Vincendeau, ‘Daddy’s Girls’; Michèle Lagny, Marie-Claire Ropars and Pierre Sorlin, Générique des années trente (Saint-Denis: Presses Universitaires de Vincennes, 1986). 42. Conway, Chanteuse in the City. 43. René Clair, ‘Talkie versus Talkie’, in French Film Theory and Criticism, Volume II, ed. by Abel, pp. 39–40 (p. 39). 44. Pagnol, ‘Cinematurgy of Paris’, p. 135. 45. Jean-Pierre Jeancolas, ‘French Cinema of the 1930s and Its Sociological Handicaps’, in La Vie est à nous!, ed. by Reader and Vincendeau, pp. 61–71; Andrew, Mists of Regret. 46. Ginette Vincendeau, ‘The Art of Spectacle: The Aesthetics of Classical French Cinema’, in The French Cinema Book, ed. by Temple and Witt, pp. 137–152; O’Brien, Cinema’s Conversion to Sound. 47. Vincendeau, ‘The Popular Cinema of the Popular Front’, p. 74. 213

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Notes to pp.10–30 48. Andrew, Mists of Regret, p. 117. 49. O’Brien, Cinema’s Conversion to Sound, p. 77. 50. Jonathan Buchsbaum, Cinema Engagé: Film in the Popular Front (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1988). 51. Jeancolas, ‘French Social Cinema and Its Sociological Handicaps’, p. 67. 52. O’Shaughnessy, Jean Renoir, pp. 103–104. 53. Vincendeau, ‘The Popular Cinema of the Popular Front’. 54. Andrew, Mists of Regret, p. 121. 55. Andrew and Ungar, Popular Front Paris and the Poetics of Culture. 56. Geneviève Sellier, Jean Grémillon: Le cinéma est à vous (Paris: Méridiens klincksieck, 1989). 57. Sandy Flitterman-Lewis, To Desire Differently: Feminism and the French Cinema, expanded edn (New York: Columbia University Press, 1996). 58. Conway, Chanteuse in the City, p. 128. 59. Vincendeau, ‘Daddy’s Girls’, p. 73. 60. Theodore Zeldin, France 1848–1945: Ambition and Love (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979), p. 343. 61. Vincendeau, ‘Melodramatic Realism’. 62. Geneviève Guillaume-Grimaud, Le Cinéma du Front Populaire (Paris: Lherminier, 1986). 63. Vincendeau, ‘The Popular Cinema of the Popular Front’. 64. Ben Brewster and Lea Jacobs, Theatre to Cinema: Stage Pictorialism and the Early Feature Film (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997). 65. Roberta Pearson, Eloquent Gestures: The Transformation of Performance Style in the Griffith Biograph Films (Berkeley; Oxford: University of California Press, 1992). 66. James Naremore, Acting in the Cinema (Berkeley; London: University of California Press, 1988), p. 4. 67. Laura Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’, Screen, 16:3 (1975), 6–18. 68. Noël Burch and Geneviève Sellier, ‘The “Funny War” of the Sexes in French Cinema’, in Film and Nationalism, ed. by Alan Williams (New Brunswick; London: Rutgers University Press, 2002), pp. 152–177 (p. 170). This chapter is translated from the introduction and Chapter 1 of Burch and Sellier’s La drôle de guerre des sexes du cinéma français. 69. Ibid., p. 173. 70. Dyer, Stars.

1

Female theatrical stardom in 1930s French cinema

1. See Appendix 1, Tables 2 and 3. 2. Conway, Chanteuse in the City, p. 214. 3. Venin was made into a film entitled Orage (Marc Allégret, 1937), which starred Michèle Morgan. I discuss this film in Chapter 4. 4. Andrew, Mists of Regret, p. 134. 5. ‘Nos artistes et l’aviation’, Pour Vous, 441, 29 April 1937, 8–9. 6. Naremore, Acting in the Cinema, p. 72. 7. Barrot and Chirat, Inoubliables!, p. 71. ‘Orane Demazis vivra éternellement sous l’invocation de Notre-Dame de la Garde.’ 8. Ginette Vincendeau, ‘In the Name of the Father: Marcel Pagnol’s “Trilogy” Marius (1931), Fanny (1932), César (1936)’, in French Film: Texts and Contexts, 2nd

214

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Notes to pp.31–46

9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.

edn, ed. by Susan Hayward and Ginette Vincendeau (London: Routledge, 2000), pp. 9–26 (p. 22). Edward Baron Turk, Child of Paradise: Marcel Carné and the Golden Age of French Cinema (Cambridge, MA; London: Harvard University Press, 1989), p. 142. Vincendeau, ‘The Popular Cinema of the Popular Front’, p. 90. Michel Chion, Le complexe de Cyrano: La langue parlée dans les films français (Paris: Éditions Cahiers du cinéma, 2008), p. 28. ‘Êtes-vous féminine/virile?’, Cinémonde, 545, 29 March 1939, 20–21. Ginette Vincendeau, ‘Hôtel du Nord’, Sight and Sound, 9:3 (1999), 41–42 (p. 42). See Appendix 1, Table 3. Gisèle de Biezville, ‘40 ans, l’âge de l’élégance’, Pour Vous, 471, 24 November 1937, 13. Gisèle de Biezville, ‘Élégance française’, Pour Vous, 472, 1 December 1937, 41. ‘Quant à Elvire Popesco, bien qu’étrangère de naissance, elle est plus Parisienne que bien des Françaises.’ ‘Nos vedettes ont du chic’, Pour Vous, 425, 7 January 1937, 11. ‘À la ville, comme à la scène ou à l’écran, cette jolie jeune femme n’hésite pas à arborer des toilettes très “mode”, je dirais même plus: “très en avant de la mode”.’ For further discussion of the garce, see Burch and Sellier, La drôle de guerre des sexes du cinéma français, pp. 52–53. Advert in Marie-Claire, 17, 25 June 1937, 5. ‘Les bijoux Burma appréciés par Mireille Balin’. Burch and Sellier, La drôle de guerre des sexes du cinéma français, p. 52. ‘populisme littéraire’. Richard B. Grant, ‘Illusion and Reality in the Goncourts’ Novels’, South Atlantic Bulletin, 35:3 (1970), 3–10 (p. 6). Andrew and Ungar, Popular Front Paris and the Poetics of Culture, p. 332. Stehlin, ‘Gueule d’amour or the Eviction of the Femme Fatale’, p. 41. Vincendeau, Pépé le Moko, p. 51.

2

International stardom in 1930s France

1. See Appendix 1, Tables 2, 3 and 4. 2. Crisp, Genre, Myth, and Convention in the French Cinema, pp. 284–285. 3. Ginette Vincendeau, ‘Hollywood Babel: The Coming of Sound and the MultipleLanguage Version’, in ‘Film Europe’ and ‘Film America’: Cinema, Commerce and Cultural Exchange 1920–1939, ed. by Andrew Higson and Richard Maltby (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 1999), pp. 207–224. 4. O’Brien, Cinema’s Conversion to Sound. 5. Phillips, City of Darkness, City of Light. 6. Tim Bergfelder, Sue Harris and Sarah Street, Film Architecture and the Transnational Imagination: Set Design in 1930s European Cinema (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2007). 7. Phillips and Vincendeau, Journeys of Desire. 8. Fiona Handyside considers the French reception of American stars after the Second World War in her thesis: ‘Commodification, Stardom and Everyday: A Comparison of the French Female Film Star and the American Female Star in French Cultural Discourses of the 1950s & 1960s’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of London, 2003); Tim Bergfelder has discussed the European career

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Notes to pp.47–52

9.

10.

11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20.

21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

26.

of Anna May Wong in: ‘Negotiating Exoticism: Hollywood, Film Europe and the Cultural Reception of Anna May Wong’, in ‘Film Europe’ and ‘Film America’, ed. by Higson and Maltby, pp. 302–324. They have published their findings in: Tani E. Barlow, Madeleine Yue Dong, Uta G. Poiger, Priti Ramamurthy, Lynn M. Thomas and Alys Eve Weinbaum, ‘The Modern Girl around the World: A Research Agenda and Preliminary Findings’, Gender & History, 17:2 (2005), 245–294; Tani E. Barlow, Madeleine Yue Dong, Uta G. Poiger, Priti Ramamurthy, Lynn M. Thomas and Alys Eve Weinbaum, The Modern Girl Around the World: Consumption, Modernity, and Globalization (Durham, NC; London: Duke University Press, 2008). Mary Louise Roberts, Disruptive Acts: The New Woman in Fin-de-Siècle France (Chicago; London: The University of Chicago Press, 2002), p. 249; Mary Louise Roberts has also discussed the modern woman in France in: Civilisation Without Sexes: Reconstructing Gender in Postwar France, 1917–1927 (Chicago; London: University of Chicago Press, 1994). Barlow et al., ‘The Modern Girl around the World’, p. 249. Clino T. Castelli and Stephen Gundle, The Glamour System (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006), p. 44. Adam C. Stanley, ‘Hearth, Home, and Steering Wheel: Gender and Modernity in France After the Great War’, The Historian, 66:2 (2004), 233–253. Cited in Valerie Steele, Paris Fashion: A Cultural History (Oxford: Berg, 1998), p. 256. Victor Margueritte, La Garçonne (Paris: Ernest Flammarion, 1922). There was also a film based on the book, which was also called La Garçonne (Jean de Limur, 1936), starring Marie Bell. ‘Toutes les lèvres peuvent faire une jolie bouche’, Marie-Claire, 1, 5 March 1937, 40–41. Suzanne Cordelier, ‘L’Orientation professionnelle’, Marie-Claire, 9, 30 April 1937, 38. Vincendeau, ‘Melodramatic Realism’, p. 60. Paul Bringuier, ‘Le Trésor caché’, Marie-Claire, 8, 23 April 1937, 5. ‘L’Ordre naturel veut que la femme charme et illumine la vie des hommes. La loi divine indique qu’une des missions de la femme sur la terre est de plaire à son mari. La beauté est légitime. La beauté est un devoir.’ Barlow et al., ‘The Modern Girl around the World’, p. 245. Antje Ascheid, ‘Nazi Stardom and the “Modern Girl”: The Case of Lilian Harvey’, New German Critique, 74 (1998), 57–89 (p. 57). Ibid., p. 58. Pierre Henry, ‘Beautés photogéniques II’, Cinéa-Ciné Pour Tous, 19, 15 August 1924, 15–19 (p. 15). Gisele de Biezville, ‘La Femme idéale 1938’, Pour Vous, 477, 5 January 1938, p. 13. ‘Chaque année, le canon de la beauté féminine se modifie au gré de la mode et du goût du jour. En 1938, il conviendra d’être grande, brune, avec des épaules frêles et la poitrine apparente.’ Ibid. ‘Chaque époque, et même chaque année, apporte une transformation dans la beauté. Jetons un regard en arrière: nous sourions déjà en songeant à la beauté de 1927 qui, petite, dévoilait ses rondeurs sous sa robe-chemise. Depuis 1930 la mode est aux femmes élancées, aux sportives. Hier la vamp platinée remportait tous les succès. En sera-t-il de même demain? Non. La vamp est passée de mode tout comme les cheveux plats trop pâles. 1938 nous apporte une femme toute différente, plus saine, plus sportive, plus nature.’

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Notes to pp.52–59 27. Gisèle de Biezville, ‘La Femme idéale 1935’, Pour Vous, 337, 2 May 1935, p. 13. 28. Marguerite Bussot, ‘Le Dur apprentissage des girls d’Hollywood’, Pour Vous, 352, 14 August 1935, 8–9. 29. ‘Beauté’, Cinémonde, 338, 11 April 1935, 328. 30. ‘Secrets de stars: comment elles atteignent le poids idéal’, Marie-Claire, 11, 14 May 1937, 16–17. 31. Daniel Boorstin cited in Dyer, Stars, p. 42. 32. René Jeanne, Tu seras star! Introduction à la vie cinématographique (Paris: La Nouvelle Société d’Édition, 1929), p. 12. 33. James Kindall, ‘Il ne suffit pas d’être belle pour devenir “star” … Il faut également beaucoup de courage et d’obstination’, Pour Vous, 47, 10 October 1929, 16. 34. J.G. Auriol, ‘Comment devenir star: Chance? Persévérance?’, Pour Vous, 156, 12 November 1931, 3. 35. Ibid. ‘Les stars ont commencé par être des femmes, des jeunes filles comme vous, dans leur famille, leur bureau, leur pension, leur atelier, leur école de danse.’ 36. Barlow et al., ‘The Modern Girl around the World’, p. 260. 37. See Appendix 1, Tables 2 and 3. 38. ‘Le Vrai secret de Greta Garbo: C’est la conquête de la beauté’, Marie-Claire, 8, 23 April 1937, 18–19 (p. 18). ‘Elle serait devenue professeur de gymnastique ou masseuse diplômée, elle se serait très bourgeoisement mariée, sa destinée aurait été unie et banale, si elle n’avait rencontré un homme qui s’appelait Stiller. Il fut amoureux d’elle et s’acharna à la détourner de son destin, à l’amener à lui. S’il avait été explorateur, peut-être eût-il fait d’elle une amazone intrépide, une chercheuse d’or. Mais il était metteur en scène de cinéma. Il résolut d’en faire une étoile et, avec une patience, une volonté extraordinaire, y réussit; Greta Garbo avait la plus belle flamme de passion qui puisse animer un visage de femme.’ 39. Roland Barthes, Mythologies, trans. by Annette Lavers (London: Vintage, 2000), p. 56. (First published in French in 1957 as Mythologies, Paris, Éditions du Seuil.) 40. Cinémonde, 334, 14 March 1935, 203. ‘Les années passent, les vedettes se multiplient, mais le visage de Greta Garbo domine toujours le cinéma, beauté glaciale mais incomparable.’ 41. Florence Jacobowitz and Richard Lippe, ‘Empowering Glamour’, CineAction, 26/27 (1992), 2–11 (p. 2). 42. Melinda Szaloky, ‘“As You Desire Me”: Reading “The Divine Garbo” Through Movement, Silence and the Sublime’, Film History, 18:2 (2006), 196–208 (p. 201). 43. Dyer, Stars, p. 144. 44. Lucy Fischer, ‘Greta Garbo and Silent Cinema: The Actress as Art Deco Icon’, in A Feminist Reader in Early Cinema, ed. by Jennifer M. Bean and Diane Negra (Durham; London: Duke University Press, 2002), pp. 476–498; Lucy Fischer, Designing Women: Cinema, Art Deco & the Female Form (New York; Chichester: Columbia University Press, 2003). 45. Fischer, Designing Women, p. 112. 46. Madame Schiaparelli, ‘Le Cinéma et la mode’, Pour Vous, 601, 22 May 1940, 4. ‘En effet, c’est Garbo qui, pour la première fois, dans le film Comme tu me veux, porte un pyjama masculin et, de cette démonstration, le pyjama deviendra en vogue … vogue qui n’a cessé depuis lors. C’est aussi Garbo qui crée la mode des cheveux flottants et qui adoptera ensuite la mode des cheveux plats, suivie dans ses fantaisies par des milliers de femmes désireuses d’être au goût du jour.’

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Notes to pp.61–73

3 1. 2. 3. 4.

5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25.

26. 27. 28.

From midinette to Hollywood star: Annabella

See Appendix 1, Tables 2 and 3. She is, however, discussed in: Phillips, ‘Changing Bodies/Changing Voices’. Vincendeau, Stars and Stardom in French Cinema, p. 27. ‘Marcel Carné à reussi à tirer de ce roman un film tumultueux et singulier. Sorti en 1938, il est aujourd’hui plus célèbre que le roman, grâce au travail du metteur en scène, aux dialogues d’Henri Jeanson, aux décors de Trauner, et à l’interprétation des acteurs, Louis Jouvet et Arletty en tête.’ Apparently Noel Coward wrote the part of Elvira in Blithe Spirit for Annabella, something she discusses in: Drew, At the Centre of the Frame, p. 138. Taken from a press book for Dinner at the Ritz located in the British Film Institute archives in London. Drew, At the Centre of the Frame, p. 109. Robert B. Ray, How a Film Theory Got Lost and Other Mysteries in Cultural Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2001), p. 4. Ibid., p. 3. Louis Aragon cited in ibid., p. 5. Richard Abel, French Film Theory and Criticism: A History/Anthology, 1907–1939, Volume I, 1907–1929 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), p. 108. In 1923 Cinéa merged with Ciné Pour Tous. The first issue of Cinéa-Ciné Pour Tous was published on 15 November 1923. An advert for these special issues appears in: Cinéa, 94, 15 June 1923, 2. Pierre Henry, ‘Beautés photogéniques’, Cinéa-Ciné Pour Tous, 17, 15 July 1924, 16–19; Henry, ‘Beautés photogéniques II’. Pierre Porte, ‘L’idée de photogénie’, Cinéa-Ciné Pour Tous, 17, 15 July 1924, 14–15. Jean Epstein, ‘De quelques conditions de la photogénie’, Cinéa-Ciné Pour Tous, 19, 15 August 1924, 6–8. Henry, ‘Beautés photogéniques’, p. 16. ‘La question du recrutement des nouveaux visages de l’écran s’était posée. Comment l’avait-on résolue? Et comment a-t-on continué à la résoudre au cours des années qui ont suivi.’ Ibid. ‘Enfin il y a des stars qui ne viennent d’aucun autre art, d’aucune autre profession et qui sont venues directement, leurs études finies, à l’écran.’ Ray, How a Film Theory Got Lost, p. 5. Dyer, Stars, p. 20. Abel Gance, ‘My Napoleon’, in French Film Theory and Criticism, Volume I, ed. by Abel, pp. 400–401 (p. 400). Andrew, Mists of Regret, p. 36. Drew, At the Centre of the Frame, p. 108. Dyer, Stars, p. 22. Charles Humel, Midinette de Paris, Écoutez les mandolines, Tino Rossi (Columbia, 8.120594, recorded in 1948). ‘Midinette de Paris / Quand tu chantes tous sourit / Dans tes yeux pleins de ciel / C’est l’avril éternel / Belle rose de printemps / L’amour guette les vingt ans / Le monde entier redit / Des refrains si jolis / Midinette de Paris […] Et feuillant les pages d’un beau roman / Vous rêvez au prince charmant / Et pour un jeune premier de l’écran / Votre coeur bat tendrement.’ M. Geestelink, ‘Plus fort que la haine’, Midinette, 374, 12 January 1934, p. 9. André-Valdès and Lucien-Farjall, ‘Cri d’amour’, Midinette, 90, 3 August 1928, 16–17. Annabella, ‘Des souvenirs par Annabella (7)’, Pour Vous, 236, 25 May 1933, 11. ‘Ceci est la vie d’une petite fille de La Varenne, qui a grandi heureuse et qui a eu la chance de réaliser le rêve de sa vie.’

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Notes to pp.73–84 29. Yves Dartois, ‘Paris-Méditerranée … film de Joë May’, Pour Vous, 174, 17 March 1932, 12. ‘charmante petite vendeuse’. 30. Nino Frank, ‘Une Grande réussite: Le Million, film de R. Clair’, Pour Vous, 123, 26 March 1931, 8–9 (p. 9). ‘Elle est jolie, naturelle.’ 31. M. G., ‘Après René Clair quelques uns de ses interprètes nous parlent du Million’, Cinémonde, 125, 12 March 1931, 168–169. ‘Annabella […] est le sourire et la grâce du film.’ 32. See Appendix 1, Table 2. 33. Richard Dyer, White (London: Routledge, 1997), p. 22. 34. Taken from Midinette, 390, 4 May 1934, 1. ‘La pureté de votre teint. Est-elle menacée un seul remède: la Créme Malacéïne.’ 35. Drew, At the Centre of the Frame, p. 112. 36. ‘Annabella’, Cinememorial.com, http://cinememorial.com/Acteur_detail.php?id =183 [accessed 7 November 2008]. 37. Albert Préjean, The Sky and the Stars: The Memoirs of Albert Préjean, trans. by Virginia Graham (London: The Harvill Press, 1956). 38. Annabella, ‘Des souvenirs par Annabella’, Pour Vous, 230–236, weekly from 13 April to 25 May 1933. 39. ‘Leurs enfants’, Pour Vous, 384, 26 March 1936, 8–9. 40. Romy Golan, Modernity and Nostalgia: Art and Politics in France Between the Wars (New Haven; London: Yale University Press, 1995), p. x. 41. Mary Louise Roberts, ‘Samson and Delilah Revisited: The Politics of Fashion in 1920s France’, The Modern Woman Revisited: Paris Between the Wars, ed. by Whitney Chadwick and Tirza True Latimer (New Brunswick; London: Rutgers University Press, 2003), pp. 65–94 (p. 65). 42. Gisèle de Biezville, ‘Charme et beauté de France’, Pour Vous, 370, 19 December 1935, 20–21 (p. 21). ‘La culture physique est indispensable aussi bien à la santé qu’à la beauté, et pour nous autres artistes, elle est indispensable à notre métier.’ 43. Jacobowitz and Lippe, ‘Empowering Glamour’, p. 3. 44. René Clair cited in Ray, How a Film Theory Got Lost, p. 4. 45. Vincendeau, ‘In the Name of the Father’, p. 13. 46. Christopher Faulkner, ‘René Clair, Marcel Pagnol and the Social Dimension of Speech’, Screen, 35:2 (1994), 157–170. 47. Siclier makes these comments in About the Trilogy, a documentary that accompanies the 2004 Kino Video DVD release of the Marseille trilogy. 48. Ibid. 49. Barrot and Chirat, Inoubliables!, p. 73. ‘On conteste déjà sa photogénie. Une spectatrice déclare sans ambages à propos d’Angèle: “Orane Demazis est sobre, émouvante, bien dans la peau de son rôle, mais comme elle est laide! Qu’on ne la prenne pas en gros plans car elle est vraiment trop disgracieuse.” Et Serge Veber écrit au sortir de Regain: “Il y a de très belles photos mais Madame Orane Demazis est moins facile à photographier que la Provence.”’ 50. In addition, Annabella claimed in an article in Pour Vous that Clair had also offered her a role in À nous la liberté, but that she chose to make Paris-Méditerranée instead (she refers to the latter film by its alternative title: Deux dans une voiture). Annabella, ‘Des souvenirs par Annabella (6)’, Pour Vous, 235, 18 May 1933, 5. 51. Drew, At the Centre of the Frame, p. 115. 52. Clair makes a reference to Napoléon in: René Clair, Cinema Yesterday and Today, trans. by Stanley Applebaum, ed., and with an introduction and annotations by R.C. Dale (New York: Dover Publications, 1972), p. 56. 53. Jean Vidal, ‘Vanda Gréville, la Vanda du Million’, Pour Vous, 125, 9 April 1931, 11. ‘je suis appelée par René Clair, qui a besoin, pour Le Million, d’une “vamp” coquette et perverse, et qui a pensé à moi.’ 219

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Notes to pp.85–102 54. Annabella, ‘Des souvenirs par Annabella (7)’, p. 11. 55. Crisp, Genre, Myth, and Convention in the French Cinema, pp. 91–92. 56. Gaston Porcher and Paul Delmet, ‘Fleurettes’, Midinette, 385, 30 March 1934, 16–17. 57. Alexandre Arnoux, ‘14 Juillet’, Pour Vous, 218, 19 January 1933, 8–9 (p. 8). ‘visage triangulaire’. 58. See Appendix 1, Table 3. 59. ‘La Parole est aux spectateurs’, Pour Vous 380, 27 February 1936, 12. 60. Julian Jackson, The Popular Front in France: Defending Democracy, 1934–38 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), p. 20. 61. Léon Blum cited in Siân Reynolds, ‘Women, Men and the 1936 Strikes in France’, in The French and Spanish Popular Fronts: Comparative Perspectives ed. by Martin S. Alexander and Helen Graham (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), pp. 185–200 (p. 185). 62. Ibid., p. 190. 63. Ibid., p. 194. 64. Ibid., p. 193. 65. Jean-Paul Le Chanois cited in Jackson, The Popular Front in France, p. 113. 66. Burch and Sellier, ‘The “Funny War” of the Sexes in French Cinema’, p. 155. 67. Vincendeau, Stars and Stardom in French Cinema, pp. 67–68. 68. Ibid., p. 66. 69. Martin, The Golden Age of French Cinema, p. 66. 70. André Lang, ‘Un film de Duvivier: La Bandera’, Pour Vous, 357, 19 September 1935, 6. ‘une Annabella inconnue, sauvage et sensuelle, farouche et rusée, ardente et fière, petite bête de sang et d’amour, qui ne fera qu’accroître le nombre des admirateurs de l’autre Annabella, sage et tendre, celle qui vit, je crois, à Paris’. 71. Her quick casting is discussed in: Drew, At the Centre of the Frame, p. 122. 72. Vincendeau, Stars and Stardom in French Cinema, p. 67. 73. Blanche Vogt, ‘Les Femmes et La Bandera’, Pour Vous, 360, 10 October 1935, 5. ‘Il est des films nettement virils. La Bandera est de ceux-là. Les femmes y paraissent sur un plan effacé, uniquement pour le plaisir des guerriers. Elles n’y sont pas maîtresses, mais esclaves, comme diraient les dames féministes.’ 74. Ibid. ‘Ah bon! […] alors tu crois qu’une danseuse mauresque n’a pas un cœur? qu’elle ne peut souffrir comme toi, par exemple?’ 75. Crisp, Genre, Myth, and Convention in the French Cinema, p. xxi. 76. This was discussed in: Alexandra Pecker, ‘En volant avec Georges Péclet, président-fondateur de l’Aéro-Club du Cinema’, Pour Vous, 441, 29 April 1937, 8. 77. Siân Reynolds, France Between the Wars: Gender and Politics (London: Routledge, 1996), p. 66. 78. George Sinclair, ‘Mademoiselle Lindbergh’, Marie-Claire, 4, 26 March 1937, 43. 79. Reynolds, France Between the Wars, p. 78. 80. ‘Modes dans le ciel’, Marie-Claire, 3, 19 March 1937, 28–29. 81. Pierre Berger, ‘À Guyancourt, Anne-Marie dans la tourmente’, Pour Vous, 364, 7 November 1935, 10. ‘Annabella, dans sa loge roulante, revêt le costume d’aviatrice. Elle porte, pour la circonstance, des bottes qui ont eu pour modèle celles de la malheureuse Hélène Boucher.’ Hélène Boucher was a celebrated aviator who was killed in an accident, aged twenty-six, on 30 November 1934, near Guyancourt. 82. Reynolds, France Between the Wars, p. 79. 83. Ibid., p. 69. 84. Vogt, ‘Les femmes et La Bandera’, p. 5. 85. Eugène Dabit, L’Hôtel du Nord (Paris: Denoël et Steele, 1929). 220

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Notes to pp.102–119 86. Marcel Carné, ‘When Will the Cinema Go Down into the Street’, in French Film Theory and Criticism, Volume II, ed. by Abel, pp. 127–129. 87. Ibid., p. 129. 88. Turk, Child of Paradise, pp. 142–3. 89. Andrew and Ungar, Popular Front Paris and the Poetics of Culture, p. 286. 90. Turk, Child of Paradise, p. 129. 91. ‘La Parole est aux spectateurs’, Pour Vous, 468, 3 November 1937, 14. ‘Parisienne? c’est peut-être le mot qui lui convient le mieux: elle en a le chic, la spontanéité, la grâce mutine, la simplicité, le charme. Ah! César et vous tous, lecteurs de Pour Vous, lecteurs de Paris, lecteurs de la province, lecteurs de l’étranger, si vous aviez été avec moi pour la voir, l’avant-veille de son départ, combien vous auriez été emballés!’ 92. Annabella, ‘Annabella nous écrit de Hollywood et nous envoie ses vœux’, Pour Vous, 477, 5 January 1938, 2. ‘J’ai déjà fait la connaissance de beaucoup de grandes Stars et metteurs en scène Américains, Norma Shearer et Virginia Bruce sont les plus jolies, et Lubitsch et Georges Cukor les plus intéressants, mais j’ai surtout eu le plaisir de connaître mieux trois des plus adorables de mes compatriotes Simone, Danielle et Micheline Cheirel. Et quand nous faisons des courses ensemble sur Hollywood Boulevard, ou bavardons en prenant le thé, (au grand dommage de nos accents respectifs) nous avons un peu l’impression de nous retrouver Avenue des Champs-Élysées.’ 93. ‘Hôtel du Nord’, Pour Vous, 525, December 1938, 26–27. 94. ‘Les Vedettes de la 20th Century-Fox vous souhaitent un joyeux noël!’, Pour Vous, 525, December 1938, 23. 95. Vincendeau, ‘Hôtel du Nord’, p. 41. 96. Drew, At the Centre of the Frame, p. 133. 97. For example it is discussed in: Doringe, ‘À Cannes … avec Mr et Mrs Tyrone Power’, Pour Vous, 558, 26 July 1939, 6.

4 A star of the Popular Front: Danielle Darrieux 1. See Appendix 1, Table 3. 2. Marcel Colin-Reval, ‘Les Films champions de 1937’, La Cinématographie Française, 1012, 25 March 1938, 76–77. 3. Ibid., p. 77. ‘Ainsi Danielle Darrieux a gagné la première place, ce dont personne ne doutait.’ 4. Crisp, Genre, Myth, and Convention in the French Cinema, p. 273. 5. Ibid. 6. Erica Carter, ‘Dietrich, Marlene (Maria Magdalene Dietrich)’, Journeys of Desire, ed. by Phillips and Vincendeau, pp. 235–237 (p. 236). 7. Préjean, The Sky and the Stars, p. 153. 8. Vincendeau, The Companion to French Cinema, p. 62. 9. Le Figaro, 20 March 1936 (located in the Bibliothèque nationale de France, site Richelieu, Club de femmes dossier [RK 2963]). 10. Préjean, The Sky and the Stars, p. 153. 11. Ibid. 12. ‘La Parole est aux spectateurs’, Pour Vous, 327, 28 February 1935, 12. ‘Albert Préjean a trouvé une partenaire idéale en Danièle Darrieux. Il y a longtemps qu’il en cherchait une. Voilà un bon couple.’ Note: In a number of publications of the period Danielle is spelt Danièle. 221

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Notes to pp.119–131 13. Darrieux, Danielle Darrieux, p. 27. ‘Nous formions en effet une sorte de couple idéal: moi l’adolescente insupportable et lui, le bon vivant, débrouillard et charmeur.’ 14. Ibid. ‘Une seule exception: Quelle drôle de gosse!, parce que j’avais le rôle principal et que je menais l’action. Ce film fut d’ailleurs un triomphe et, pour la première fois, le public confondit l’actrice et le personnage.’ 15. Jane Marinelli, ‘Ce que révèlent leurs visages: Danielle Darrieux et Henri Decoin’, Pour Vous, 567, 27 September 1939, 14. 16. Yves Desrichard, Henri Decoin: Un artisan du cinéma populaire (Paris; Courbevoie: BiFi/Durante, 2003), p. 27. ‘Le jour où les auteurs dramatiques comprendront que, sur le plateau d’un studio, on y peut créer la vie comme sur le plateau d’un théâtre, ce jour-là le cinéma ne sera plus seulement une industrie, mais aussi un art. Pagnol l’a prouvé, Yves Mirande l’a démontré, et aussi Jacques Deval et Sacha Guitry.’ 17. Whitney Walton, ‘American Girls and French Jeunes Filles: Negotiating National Identities in Interwar France’, Gender & History, 17:2 (2005), pp. 325–353 (pp. 329–330). 18. Gisèle de Biezville, ‘Avez-vous le type de Danielle Darrieux’, Pour Vous, 382, 12 March 1936, 11. ‘Vous qui désirez lui ressembler, épilez vos sourcils comme elle, ce qui accentuera votre air juvénile.’ 19. Cited in Crisp, Genre, Myth, and Convention in the French Cinema, p. 247. 20. Lucien Wahl, ‘Mayerling’, Pour Vous, 377, 6 February 1936, p. 7. ‘Très peu d’artistes auraient exprimé aussi purement les sentiments profonds de la jeune fille.’ 21. Marinelli, ‘Ce que révèlent leurs visages’, p. 14. ‘Danielle Darrieux pour être heureuse a besoin d’une aide, d’un appui tendre, compréhensif. D’une main secourable, ferme et très douce.’ 22. Ibid. ‘À la cantine. Elle enguirlande le garçon, picore à droite et à gauche, change de table, jette un cri de guerre, aperçoit une figure qui lui plaît, change encore de table, boit une gorgée de fine, chipe une cigarette, ronge un os, avale un vermouth, commande un café-crème, jure qu’elle ne boira plus jamais d’alcool, sirote un cocktail et, s’enfermant tout à coup dans une immense mélancolie, demande un quart Vichy.’ 23. de Biezville, ‘Avez-vous le type de Danielle Darrieux’, p. 15. ‘Danielle Darrieux est le type de beauté très française, et quoique le studio l’accapare au point de la priver de culture physique, elle conserve une ligne d’une minceur extrême.’ 24. Paule Hutzler, ‘Ciné-maquillage: Voudriez-vous ressembler à … Danielle Darrieux’, Ciné-miroir, 582, 29 May 1936, 342. 25. Stanley, ‘Hearth, Home, and Steering Wheel’, p. 234. 26. Gisèle de Biezville, ‘Tailleurs d’hiver’ Pour Vous, 415, 29 October 1936, 13. 27. Andrew, Mists of Regret, p. 223. 28. Ibid., p. 222. 29. Ibid., p. 227. 30. Georges Sadoul, ‘Apropos Several Recent Films’, in French Film Theory and Criticism, Volume II, ed. by Abel, pp. 218–223 (p. 220). 31. Ibid. 32. This is briefly discussed by Guillaume-Grimaud in Le Cinéma du Front Populaire, p. 42. 33. Sadoul, ‘Apropos Several Recent Films’, p. 219. 34. Andrew, Mists of Regret, p. 378. 35. Mulvey, ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’. 36. Andrew, Mists of Regret, p. 227.

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Notes to pp.132–156 37. Paule Hutzler, ‘Club de femmes … Club de vedettes!’, Ciné-miroir, 574, 3 April 1936, 214. 38. Taken from the video sleeve for the British Film Institute release (2000) of Club de femmes. Because of its lesbian plotline, Club de femmes has gained attention from gay and lesbian audiences and was shown at the London Lesbian and Gay Film Festival in 1987. 39. Alison Darren, The Lesbian Film Guide (London: Cassell, 2000). 40. Issues surrounding women and the vote in France are discussed in: William D. Irvine, ‘Women’s Right and the “Rights of Man”’, in Crisis and Renewal in France, 1918–1962, ed. by Kenneth Mouré and Martin S. Alexander (New York; Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2002), pp. 46–65. 41. Vincendeau, Stars and Stardom in French Cinema, p. 73. 42. Richard Dyer, ‘A Star Is Born and the Construction of Authenticity’, in Stardom: Industry of Desire, ed. by Gledhill, pp. 132–140 (p. 137). 43. Dyer discusses the notion of the ‘perfect fit’ between star persona and film character in: Stars, p. 129. 44. Burch and Sellier, La drôle de guerre des sexes du cinéma français, p. 31. ‘Des jeunes filles ô combien modernes sont enfermées dans une sorte de couvent laïc à l’abri du regard des hommes, et donc plus susceptibles de s’exposer “spontanément” à celui de l’homme-caméra.’ 45. De Biezville, ‘Tailleurs d’hiver’. 46. Genova, ‘Miss dynamite, Katherine Hepburn’, Ciné-miroir, 618, 5 February 1937, 87. ‘Ce n’est jamais sans une certaine appréhension, qu’à Hollywood, on parle de Katherine Hepburn. Écrire louanges ou critiques sur Katie, c’est un peu comme si on manipulait une bombe infiniment dangereuse qui peut faire explosion au moment où l’on s’y attend le moins!’ 47. Walton, ‘American Girls and French Jeunes Filles’, p. 330. 48. Nino Frank, ‘Un vaudeville et des duos: Un mauvais garçon’, Pour Vous, 422, 17 December 1936, 4–5 (p. 4). 49. ‘Je n’donn’rais pas ma place / Pour un boulet d’canon / Je n’donn’rais pas ma place / Elle est trop bonne et j’ai l’filon / Tous mes ennuis s’effacent / L’espoir est dans mon cœur / À tous les gens qui passent / Je veux crier mon bonheur.’ 50. Tina Olsin Lent, ‘Romantic Love and Friendship: The Redefinition of Gender Relations in Screwball Comedy’, in Classical Hollywood Comedy, ed. by Henry Jenkins and Kristine Brunovska Karnick (New York; London: Routledge, 1995), pp. 314–331 (p. 322). 51. See Appendix 2, Table 5. 52. Alastair Phillips, ‘Migration and Exile in the Classical Period’, in The French Cinema Book ed. by Temple and Witt, pp. 103–117 (p. 107). 53. Martin, The Golden Age of French Cinema, p. 88. 54. Burch and Sellier, ‘The “Funny War” of the Sexes in French Cinema’, pp. 157–158. 55. Ibid., p. 158. 56. ‘Avant de partir pour Hollywood, Danielle Darrieux tournera Abus de confiance’, La Cinématographie Française, 956, 26 February 1937, 11. ‘“Ce sujet me plait”, a déclaré Danielle Darrieux, “pour la première fois, je serai aux prises avec les difficultés de la vie; pour la première fois, je vais jouer une pauvre petite fille. J’aime ce scénario parce que Pierre Wolff y est tout entier lui-même avec sa brutalité, ses bougonnements, ses attendrissements, sa voix rude et sa terrible franchise.”’ 57. Vincendeau, ‘Melodramatic Realism’, p. 53.

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Notes to pp.158–170 58. Burch and Sellier, ‘The “Funny War” of the Sexes in French Cinema’, p. 157. 59. Ibid., p. 157.

5 The poetry of poetic realism: Michèle Morgan 1. ‘Analyse et critique des films: Orage’, La Cinématographie Française, 1003, 21 January 1938, 20: ‘Michèle Morgan tient les promesses de Gribouille et affirme son intelligence, son expression, sa sensibilité; elle est la grande révélation de l’année et nous console du départ de Danielle Darrieux.’ 2. Cinémonde, 440, 25 March 1937, 306. ‘Michèle Morgan, une découverte’. 3. Pour Vous, 472, 1 December 1937, 43. ‘Une découverte de 1937, Michèle Morgan’. 4. Gisèle de Biezville, ‘Métamorphoses de la beauté’, Pour Vous, 463, 29 September 1937, 13. ‘Michèle Morgan, la nouvelle découverte du cinéma’. 5. J. R., ‘Raimu marchand de bicyclettes et juré d’assises dans Gribouille’, Pour Vous, 457, 19 August 1937, 10. ‘une des révélations de la saison’. 6. Pour Vous, 480, 26 January 1938. ‘Dans ce numero: Une nouvelle étoile, Michèle Morgan’. 7. Roger Regent, ‘Une étoile est née: Michèle Morgan, une âme, un visage’, Pour Vous, 26 January 1938, 3. 8. Bernard Houssiau, Marc Allégret: Découvreur de stars: sous les yeux d’André Gide (Yens sur Morges: Éditions Cabédita, 1994), p. 11. 9. Morgan, With Those Eyes, p. 21. 10. André Arnyvelde, ‘Deux yeux bleus immenses: Michèle Morgan’, Pour Vous, 501, 22 June 1938, 3. 11. Serge Veber, ‘Chic! Une nouvelle!’ Pour Vous, 436, 25 March 1937, 2. ‘Voici une nouvelle qui va faire plaisir à toutes les jeunes filles rêvant d’être un jour rendues célèbres par l’écran, et qui en même temps va donner tort à celles qui pensent et qui m’écrivent qu’on ne peut pas, en France, obtenir un grand rôle dans un film si l’on n’a pas un grand nom ou si l’on n’est pas appuyé par un monsieur sérieux.’ 12. Ibid. ‘Elle n’a jamais fait de théâtre, elle n’est la nièce ni d’un ministre ni d’un banquier influent, elle n’a pas de fortune.’ 13. Andrew, Mists of Regret, p. 135. 14. Lucie Derain, ‘1938 sera-t-elle égale à 1937’, La Cinématographie Française, 1012, 25 March 1938, 79. ‘Michèle Morgan, que Gribouille et Orage ont définitivement lancée, démontr[e] la faculté de rajeunissement, de renouvellement que le film français possède.’ 15. Gilbert Turquan, ‘Quai des brumes: Film d’atmosphère’, La Cinématographie Française, 1006, 11 February 1938, 19. ‘Michèle Morgan, dont la rapide ascension prouve le grand talent et que ses premières créations dans Gribouille et Orage ont placée au rang de nos meilleures vedettes.’ 16. Ciné-miroir cited in Crisp, Genre, Myth, and Convention in the French Cinema, p. 276. 17. Vincendeau, ‘The Art of Spectacle’, p. 148. 18. Ciné-miroir cited in Crisp, Genre, Myth, and Convention in the French Cinema, p. 276. 19. Morgan, With Those Eyes, p. 22. 20. Ciné-miroir cited in Crisp, Genre, Myth, and Convention in the French Cinema, p. 276.

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Notes to pp.170–190 21. Jane Marinelli, ‘Ce que révèle le visage de Michèle Morgan’, Pour Vous, 542, 3 April 1939, 12. ‘Aimer, souffrir, lutter! Pour elle, c’est la seule raison d’être.’ 22. Hayward, French National Cinema, pp. 171–172. 23. Ibid., p. 171. 24. Alexander Walker, The Celluloid Sacrifice: Aspects of Sex in the Movies (London: Joseph, 1966), p. 109. 25. In the USA Marie Walewska was entitled Conquest. 26. Regent, ‘Une étoile est née’, 3. ‘elle est pure dans l’impur’. 27. Albert Valentin, ‘Les deux timides’, Cinémonde, 545, 29 March 1939, 18. ‘quelqu’un d’extraordinairement pur’. 28. ‘La Parole est aux spectateurs’, Pour Vous, 503, 6 July 1938, 12. ‘ange et démon’. 29. Arnyvelde, ‘Deux yeux bleus immenses’, p. 3. 30. Morgan, With Those Eyes. In the photo section between pages 104 and 105, there is an image of Morgan and Gabin at her house-warming party for (as the caption reads): ‘her first independent home in the rue Raynouard’. On page 108, Morgan mentions the villa that she bought at La Baule near the Loire. 31. De Biezville, ‘Métamorphoses de la beauté’, p. 13. 32. Vincendeau, ‘Melodramatic Realism’, p. 63. 33. Pour Vous, 563, 30 August 1939. ‘la bouleversante héroine’. 34. Andrew, Mists of Regret. 35. Conway, Chanteuse in the City, p. 116. 36. Hayward, French National Cinema, p. 172. 37. Burch and Sellier, La drôle de guerre des sexes du cinéma français, p. 47. ‘Ce film brosse l’un des portraits les plus réalistes de l’hypocrasie qui caractérise le pouvoir patriarcal réel – ce double standard de la langue anglaise […] – en la personne d’un riche PDG, autocrate débonnaire à la maison, exploiteur des filles en ville.’ 38. Richard Maltby, Hollywood Cinema, 2nd edn (Malden, MA; Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2003), p. 386. 39. ‘La Parole est aux spectateurs’, 503, 6 July 1938, 12. ‘Il faut que cette jeune fille apprenne à être vivante (qu’elle s’inspire de la petite Darrieux), à sourire moins énigmatiquement et moins tristement qu’elle a beaucoup trop tendance à le faire.’ 40. Vincendeau, ‘Melodramatic Realism’, p. 57. 41. Robert Chazal, cited in Turk Child of Paradise, p. 124. 42. Jean Gabin and Michèle Morgan DVD box-set, released by mk2 (2004). 43. ‘Jean Gabin, Michèle Morgan: le couple mythique du cinéma français’. 44. See Vincendeau, ‘Community, Nostalgia and the Spectacle of Masculinity’, p. 18, and Crisp, Genre, Myth, and Convention in the French Cinema, p. 273. 45. Austin, Stars in Modern French Film, p. 18. 46. Morgan, With Those Eyes, p. 88. 47. Vincendeau, Pépé le Moko, p. 51. 48. Vincendeau, ‘Community, Nostalgia and the Spectacle of Masculinity’, p. 26. 49. Turk, Child of Paradise, p. 123. 50. Vincendeau, Stars and Stardom in French Cinema, p. 72. 51. Vincendeau discusses this in ibid., p. 63. 52. Vincendeau, ‘Community, Nostalgia and the Spectacle of Masculinity’, p. 34. 53. Vincendeau, ‘Noir is also a French Word’, p. 56. 54. Pierre Mac Orlan cited in Andrew, Mists of Regret, p. 264. 55. This representation of Zabel, whose name is Jewish in origin, is presumably what prompted Jean Renoir to term the film ‘fascist’, a point discussed by Turk in Child of Paradise, p. 127. 225

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Notes to pp.190–199 56. Sellier, Jean Grémillon, p. 162: ‘L’appartement conjugal des Laurent s’est donc peu à peu transformé en une prison.’ 57. Bazin, ‘The Destiny of Jean Gabin’, p. 123.

Conclusion 1. Annabella, ‘Des souvenirs par Annabella (7)’, p. 11. ‘Ceci est la vie d’une petite fille de La Varenne, qui a grandi heureuse et qui a eu la chance de réaliser le rêve de sa vie.’ 2. Castelli and Gundle, The Glamour System. 3. Dyer, Stars, p. 38. 4. See Appendix 1, Tables 2 and 3. 5. See Vanessa R. Schwartz, It’s So French!: Hollywood, Paris, and the Making of Cosmopolitan Film Culture (Chicago; London: The University of Chicago Press, 2007). 6. Danielle Darrieux, ‘Chacun a dans sa vie une chance qui sommeille …’, Cinémonde, 439, 18 March 1937, 245. ‘déjà trop longue carrière’.

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Bibliography ______ ‘Daddy’s Girls (Oedipal Narratives in 1930s French Films)’, Iris, 8 (1988), 70–81 ______ ‘The Mise-en-scène of Suffering: French Chanteuses réalistes’, New Formations, 3 (1987), 107–128 ______ ‘The Popular Cinema of the Popular Front’, in La Vie est à nous!: French Cinema of the Popular Front, 1935–1938, ed. by Keith Reader and Ginette Vincendeau (London: British Film Institute, 1986) pp. 73–102 ______ ‘French Cinema in the 1930s: Social Text and Context of a Popular Entertainment Medium’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of East Anglia, 1985) ______ ‘Community, Nostalgia and the Spectacle of Masculinity’, Screen, 26:6 (1985), 18–38 Viviani, Christian, ‘The “Foreign Woman” in Classical Hollywood Cinema’, in Journeys of Desire: European Actors in Hollywood, A Critical Companion, ed. by Alastair Phillips and Ginette Vincendeau (London: British Film Institute, 2006), pp. 95–101 Walker, Alexander, Stardom: The Hollywood Phenomenon (London: Joseph, 1970) ______ The Celluloid Sacrifice: Aspects of Sex in the Movies (London: Joseph, 1966) Walton, Whitney, ‘American Girls and French Jeunes Filles: Negotiating National Identities in Interwar France’, Gender & History, 17:2 (2005), 325–353 Weiner, Susan, ‘When a Prostitute Becomes an Orphan: Pierre Mac Orlan’s Le Quai des brumes (1927) in the Service of Poetic Realism’, Studies in French Cinema, 6:2 (2006), 129–140 Williams, Alan, Republic of Images: A History of French Filmmaking (Cambridge, MA; London: Harvard University Press, 1992) Willis, Andy, ed., Film Stars: Hollywood and Beyond (Manchester; New York: Manchester University Press, 2004) Zeldin, Theodore, France 1848–1945: Ambition and Love (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979)

Periodicals The periodicals from the 1920s and 1930s that I most frequently consulted were: Cinéa (later, Cinéa-Ciné Pour Tous) Ciné-miroir Cinémonde Marie-Claire Midinette Pour Vous 235

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Index

8 femmes 199, 200 Abus de confiance 120, 121, 123, 126, 127, 139, 151, 153–160, 207 Achard, Marcel 165, 171, 172 Alerme 123, 140, 142, 145 Allégret, Marc 27, 55, 161–167, 171, 172, 193, 200 Andrew, Dudley 9–10, 13, 14, 23, 41, 69, 107, 129, 131, 165, 178. See also Andrew, Dudley and Ungar, Steven Andrew, Dudley and Ungar, Steven 14, 41, 107. See also Andrew, Dudley Andrex 109, 177, 180 Anémone 200 Angèle 27, 29, 82 Annabella 1, 4, 21, 33, 60, 61–115, 116, 117, 118, 120, 122, 123, 125, 127, 140, 160, 161, 171, 172, 174, 175, 176, 192, 193, 194, 195, 198, 199, 200, 201–203, 204, 205 Anne-Marie 89, 92, 95, 97–101, 114 Aragon, Louis 65 Argal, Else 128, 133 Arletty 31–34, 36, 38, 39, 40, 58, 61, 75, 102–106, 109–110, 111, 112, 113, 140, 175 Art Deco 14, 48, 59, 99, 132 Aumont, Jean-Pierre 8, 61, 102, 106, 108, 112, 206 Aurenche, Jean 101 authenticity 20, 27, 136–137, 160, 192, 202 Baker, Josephine 98 Le Bal 118, 119 Balasko, Josiane 200 Balin, Mireille 40–44, 205 La Bandera 89, 92–97, 100, 101, 130, 131, 186 Bardot, Brigitte 162, 200 Barthes, Roland 56

Les Bas-fonds 178, 183, 207 Baum, Vicki 120 Bazin, André 3, 186, 191 Béart, Emmanuelle 200 Bell, Marie 98, 205 La Belle équipe 41, 43, 128–131, 137, 173, 175 Bernstein, Henry 23, 165 Berry, Jules 3, 205 La Bête humaine 33, 183, 193 Blanchar, Pierre 76, 204, 205 Blum, Léon 12, 90 Le Bonheur 23–27, 29 boulevard theatre 1, 22–23, 31, 32, 33, 34, 36, 44, 140, 165 Boyer, Charles 8, 23, 116, 122, 153, 166, 171, 204, 205 Brasseur, Pierre 142, 173 Bringing up Baby 143 Broken Blossoms 69–70 Brooks, Louise 127 Burch, Noël and Sellier, Geneviève 2, 3, 13, 15, 17, 19–20, 41, 91–92, 138, 154–155, 158, 159, 174, 179, 187. See also Sellier, Geneviève café-concert 1 Cagney, James 117, 206 Carné, Marcel 2, 17, 31, 33, 61, 101, 102, 103, 109, 113, 193, 197 Catelain, Jaque 24, 204 César 27, 30, 207 Chanel, Coco 50, 175, 195, 196 chanteuse réaliste 8, 16, 178 Chaplin, Charlie 19, 55, 65, 204, 205 La Chienne 15 Chion, Michel 31–32 Clair, René 2, 9, 17, 74, 77, 78–89, 109, 114, 120, 178, 194, 197 classical cinema 5, 6, 183

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Index Club de femmes 121, 127–139, 140, 141, 152, 156, 160 Colbert, Claudette 143, 204, 205 Colette 50 Comédie-Française 1, 191 Conway, Kelley 8, 15, 16, 22, 178 Coquecigrole 118 Crawford, Joan 52–53, 117, 125, 127, 175, 205 Le Crime de Monsieur Lange 12, 15, 129 La Crise est finie 119 Crisp, Colin 4, 5, 6, 7, 46, 85, 98, 116–117, 160 Cukor, Georges 58, 111, 114, 143 Dabit, Eugène 61, 102 Darcey, Janine 32 Darrieux, Danielle 1, 4, 21, 52–53, 62, 89, 111, 114–160, 161, 171, 172, 174, 175, 176, 181, 192, 193, 195, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 205 Day, Josette 128, 193 Decoin, Henri 118, 119–121, 123, 140, 151, 153–154, 155 Dédé 136 Delac, Louis 118, 119 Delluc, Louis 64 Delubac, Jacqueline 31, 37–40, 44 Demazis, Orane 27–30, 79–80, 82–83, 87–88 Les Demoiselles de Rochefort 200 Deneuve, Catherine 200 Dernier amour 62 Le Dernier milliardaire 83 Destinées 170 Deval, Jacques 34, 120, 121, 130, 133, 140 Dietrich, Marlene 19, 58, 117, 120, 204, 205 Dieudonné, Albert 68 Dinner at the Ritz 62, 110 La Dixième symphonie 64 Le Domino vert 120–121, 125, 126 Dulac, Germaine 64 Duvivier, Julien 2, 7, 14, 17, 41, 92, 93, 94, 128–129, 130, 197 Dyer, Richard 2–3, 4–5, 18, 20, 58, 67, 71, 75, 136–137, 195 Eisenstein, Sergei 64–65 Les Enfants du paradis 31, 140 Entente cordiale 23

Entr’acte 79 L’Entraîneuse 167, 171, 172, 174, 176–182 Epstein, Jean 64, 66 Epstein, Marie 15 Éternel conflit 62 Faisons un rêve 10, 37–39, 44, 200 Fanny 27–30, 82, 86 Faulkner, Christopher 13, 81, 82 La Femme du boulanger 41, 42, 207 femme fatale 44, 58–59, 60, 173 Fernandel 11, 116, 117, 204, 205 Feuillère, Edwige 3, 8, 204, 205 Feyder, Jacques 2, 197, 210 filmed theatre 9–11, 23, 27, 80, 120–121, 140, 152, 197 Florelle 15, 204 Fréhel 177, 178, 181–182 French impressionist cinema 23, 62–71, 79 French New Wave, the 199 Fresnay, Pierre 27–28, 205, 206 Fric-frac 31 Gabin, Jean 3, 7, 8, 32, 43, 92, 95, 97, 116– 117, 129, 131, 136–137, 164, 167, 168, 172, 173, 175, 182–191, 205 Gable, Clark 53, 183, 205, 206 Gance, Abel 62, 63, 64, 67, 68, 74, 79, 120, 197 Garat, Henri 8, 76, 142, 146, 150, 151, 204 Garbo, Greta 55–60, 77, 117, 120, 160, 171–172, 204, 205 garce, the 22, 40–44 garçonne, the 32, 50, 98, 127. See also modern woman, the La Garçonne (novel) 50, 127 Gardez le sourire 73 Gaumont 5 Gaynor, Janet 55 Gigolette 162, 210 Gil, Gilbert 156, 177 Gish, Lillian 19, 69, 70 glamour 54–55, 58, 59, 66–67, 68, 78, 84, 88–89, 98–99, 106, 112–113, 125, 194–196, 201 Gösta Berlings saga 56 Grand Hotel 127 Green, Eva 200 237

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The French Screen Goddess Grémillon, Jean 2, 14, 41, 167 Gréville, Vanda 75, 84, 85 Gribouille 55, 161, 162, 165–166, 167, 170, 171, 173, 174 Griffith, D.W. 69–70 Gueule d’amour 41, 42, 178 Guitry, Sacha 8, 9, 10, 23, 34, 35, 36, 37, 39, 79, 120, 200, 205 Harlow, Jean 52–53, 125 Harvey, Lilian 51, 204 Hayward, Susan 171, 178 Hepburn, Katharine 143–144, 175 Holiday 143 L’Homme à femmes 200 L’Homme qui revient de loin 62 Hôtel du Nord 31, 32, 33, 58, 61–62, 101– 114, 115, 140 Illéry, Pola 75, 80, 84, 85 Ils étaient neuf célibataires 34, 35, 36 J’accuse! 64 Jeancolas, Jean-Pierre 9, 10, 13 Jeanson, Henri 61, 101 Jenny 130, 193 jeune fille, the 121–127, 138–139, 144, 145, 153, 159, 160, 196, 201 Joan of Paris 170 Le Jour se lève 31, 32, 85, 109, 175, 183, 193 Jouvet, Louis 8, 32, 61, 103, 104, 105, 107, 205, 206 Katia 123–124, 136, 151, 152, 153, 156, 207 Lac aux dames 193 Lanvin, Lisette 193 Laurent, Jacqueline 109, 175, 193 Lebon, Yvette 32, 193 Le Chanois, Jean-Paul 91 Leclerc, Ginette 32, 40–44 Ledoyen, Virginie 200 Lefèvre, René 74, 83 Lempicka, Tamara de 48, 49, 50, 146 L’Herbier, Marcel 23, 24, 64, 197 Le Lieu du crime 200 Litvak, Anatole 116, 152, 197 Luchaire, Corinne 89, 205 Mac Orlan, Pierre 92, 93, 189 Ma cousine de Varsovie 34, 36 Madame de … 152

Mademoiselle Josette, ma femme 76 Mademoiselle ma mère 120, 121, 123, 124, 126, 140, 141, 142–143, 144, 195 Mademoiselle Mozart 146, 161 Marceau, Sophie 200 Margueritte, Victor 50, 127 Marie-Claire 50, 175, 180 Marie, légende hongroise 73, 75 Marie Walewska 171–172, 207 Marius 27–28, 29, 30, 82, 86 La Marseillaise 12 Mauvaise graine 121 Mayerling 116, 121, 122, 123, 124, 151, 152, 153, 198, 207 Meerson, Lazare 84 Mélo 23 melodrama 13, 16, 22–31, 44, 70, 93 Mes tantes et moi 162 midinette, the 71–79, 84, 87, 88, 100, 109, 112–114, 115, 121–122, 196, 201 Midinette (magazine) 72, 73, 85–86 Le Million 9, 74, 75, 78–79, 81, 82–85, 87, 88–89, 95, 109, 111–112, 114 Le Mioche 162, 207 Mirande, Yves 120, 140 Mistinguett 24, 40, 130 La Mode rêvée 23 modern woman, the 16, 47–55, 59, 60, 76, 77, 83–84, 88–89, 99, 101, 125–127, 132, 133, 138, 139, 140–141, 143–144, 145–148, 155, 158, 159, 160, 167, 174– 176, 177, 179–181, 187, 192, 195–196, 201 Morgan, Michèle 1, 4, 21, 32, 62, 89, 109, 116, 160, 161–192, 193, 195, 199–203, 205 Morin, Edgar 2–3, 183 Morlay, Gaby 8, 22–27, 30, 75, 89, 98, 116, 140, 165, 204, 205 Mulvey, Laura 19 Murat, Jean 75, 76, 99, 113, 204, 206 music hall 1, 13, 24, 31, 32, 40, 185 Napoléon vu par Abel Gance 62, 63–64, 67–71, 73, 74, 78, 83, 97, 100 Naremore, James 19, 25 new woman, the 47 nostalgia 14, 76–77, 92 Nuits de feu 23 O’Brien, Charles 10–11, 46

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Index Odéon 1 Ophüls, Max 152 Orage 165, 166, 167, 171, 172, 174–175, 207 O’Shaughnessy, Martin 13, 15, 17 Pagnol, Marcel 7, 9, 11, 27, 29–30, 41, 79–82, 120 Panurge 118 Parisienne, the 31–40, 47, 103, 110 Paris-Méditerranée 73, 76 Paris qui dort 79 Parola, Daniele 193 Pathé 5 Pépé le Moko 14, 41, 43, 178, 184, 207 Persepolis 199, 200 photogénie 62–71, 79, 82, 88, 194 Le Plaisir 152 poetic realism 2, 9–10, 13, 33, 101, 107, 109, 158, 161, 165, 167, 168–169, 175, 178, 183, 187, 192, 194 Popesco, Elvire 31, 34–37, 38, 39, 40, 75, 205 Popular Front 12–14, 17, 21, 89–101, 115, 117, 128–139, 145, 147, 151, 155, 159, 160, 161, 181–182, 192, 193, 201–203 Port-Arthur 153 Power, Tyrone 75, 111, 114 Préjean, Albert 75–76, 80, 98, 118–119, 123, 133, 140, 142 Presle, Micheline 4 Préville, Gisèle 177, 180 Printemps, Yvonne 37, 89, 205 Prisons de femmes 41, 193 Prix de beauté 127 Le Quai des brumes 33, 109, 163–164, 167, 168, 169, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 178, 183, 184, 185, 186, 187, 188–189, 190, 191, 195, 207 Quatorze juillet 9, 73, 74, 75, 78, 79, 81, 82, 83–84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 95, 100, 109, 111–112, 114 Queen Christina 58 Quelle drôle de gosse! 119, 121, 123, 124, 127, 136, 140, 142, 146 Quema el suelo 62 The Rage of Paris 116, 120, 140 Raimu 8, 29, 37, 39, 41, 56, 80, 166, 174, 205 Rank 5, 6

Ray, Robert B. 64, 66, 79 Le Récif de corail 183, 186, 191 Regain 27, 82, 207 La Règle du jeu 98 Remorques 167, 172, 175, 183, 184–185, 186, 187, 189–191 Renaud, Madeleine 190–191, 205 Renoir, Jean 2, 12–13, 15, 33, 98, 128, 130, 178, 193, 197, 203 Retour à l’aube 120, 121, 146, 153 Richard-Willm, Pierre 99, 204, 205 Romance, Viviane 3, 8, 40–44, 89, 116, 131, 172–173, 175, 205 La Ronde 152 Rosay, Françoise 8, 205 Rossi, Tino 71, 74, 205 La Roue 64 La Rue sans nom 178 Sadoul, Georges 129, 130 Sagnier, Ludivine 200 Saint Exupéry, Antoine de 98 Samson 23 Le Scandale 23 Le Schpountz 11, 27, 207 screwball comedy 142–151, 160 Sellier, Geneviève 4, 14, 190. See also Burch, Noël Shearer, Norma 111, 114, 204 Simon, Michel 24, 174, 186, 190, 205 Simon, René 165 Simon, Simone 111, 162, 175, 193, 205 Sous les toits de Paris 80, 82 Spaak, Charles 177, 178 Stage Door 143–144 Stanno tutti bene 199 A Star is Born 55 Stiller, Mauritz 56, 120 Sternberg, Joseph von 120 Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans 55 Temple, Shirley 55, 111, 205 Tessier, Valentine 128, 154 Torrent 58 Tourneur, Maurice 23, 152 Tovaritch 34 Tramel 174, 177 Turk, Edward Baron 31, 109, 185 Two-Faced Woman 58 Under the Red Robe 110 239

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The French Screen Goddess Une fille à papa 162 Un fils d’Amérique 76 Un mauvais garçon 121, 126, 127, 140, 142, 144–151, 160, 181 Un soir de rafle 76 Vadim, Roger 200 Valentin, Albert 167, 172, 178 Vandal, Charles 118, 119 Vanel, Charles 8, 43, 121, 123, 131, 133, 154–155, 156, 157, 204, 205, 206 vaudeville 1

Veber, Serge 82, 124, 164 Verneuil, Louis 34, 120, 140 La Vie est à nous 13 La Vie parisienne 162 Vigo, Jean 2 Vincendeau, Ginette 2, 3, 4, 6–7, 10, 14, 15, 16, 17, 30, 31, 33, 46, 50, 61, 80, 93, 95, 102, 113, 118, 129, 136, 156, 169, 174, 177, 181, 184, 185, 186, 187 Volga en flammes 121, 153 Wings of the Morning 78, 110 Wolff, Pierre 120

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