"No, I’ve never stolen a car, or gone to prison, or abused Isabelle Huppert on the side of a road.
"And yet I am the immortal author of Les Valseuses.
"I was born March 4, 1939, a good year, at Boulogne-Billancourt.
"My father was a good actor.
"Yes, he had an influence over me. As much as Boris Vian, James Cain, and Thelonious Monk.
"I am an old young director full of promise (Hitler, connais pas!).
"Sadly, I didn’t keep that promise (Calmos).
"And then, thanks to a group of friends and the flip of a wrist, I managed to pull myself together (Buffet Froid).
"You see how I can look at my work in a lucid way.
"If you ask me who are the best moviegoers in the world, I will tell you the Americans, because of a pretty little statue that sits in my library and that I caress once a day with a trembling hand. (Get Out Your Handkerchiefs)
"As to why my hand is trembling, I will let you guess. Sometimes it’s emotion.
"I am also the director of a film titled Beau-Père, the star of which has given us the slip.
"The cinema is much more important than politics, believe me.” [Self-written bio, found on p. 160 in Blier, Pensées et répliques]
I ended the first part of this piece with a discussion of Too Beautiful for You (1989), which was a turning point in Blier’s work, as it saw him departing from the world he had depicted from the mid-Seventies on, in which he limned (and made fun of) sexist men and numb women, as well as curious ciphers who inhabited an absurdist universe.But just because his female characters became three-dimensional and one could feel genuine sympathy for them didn’t mean that Blier was abandoning his characteristic Theatre of the Absurd-ish situations and bizarre juxtapositions. He proved that brilliantly in the trio of films he made with actress Anouk Grinberg, who was his companion for most of the Nineties and the muse for his first films devoted to female protagonists.
First, a word about his approach to filmmaking. One of the reasons I did 14 episodes about his films on the Funhouse TV show from the fall of 2021 to the spring of 2022 is that his work adhered to both the “high” and “low” sides of the material I cover. At first glance his films were sexual and appealed to the vulgar side of French farce; once one watches more than a few minutes of any of his films, though, it’s evident that a master storyteller was at work, who wanted to depict characters in certain situations, but never offered the easy (idiotic) answers you’d find in a simple sex farce.
He stated his goal in a 1988 quote: “From the beginning I try to identify strategies that will let me take the viewer by surprise. I’m particularly fond of using cliches and classic dramatic forms as my starting point. Then I completely reverse them. It upsets the emotional balance, shatters the cocoon of intellectual comfort in which spectators have hoped to bury themselves.” [1988 quote, cited in Harris, p. 20]
Thus, the illogical universe that his characters inhabit may seem to indicate that the film is going out of control, but that universe is actually a careful construct through which Blier is up-ending any number of dramatic cliches. And there are no better examples of this than the first two films he made with Grinberg.
Sadly, though, U.S. distribution of foreign films got weaker in the Eighties and by the Nineties it reached new lows. Thus, of the eight films I about to discuss here — of which at least four are classic Blier, up there with his Seventies/Eighties best — only one (!) had U.S. theatrical distribution and two had DVD releases (with one other being released only on VHS).
Thus, some of Blier’s best work has never been seen by American cinephiles. And thus the image of him as a “misogynist” filmmaker was made even greater, as very few American viewers have seen the mature Blier. (His age when making these last eight films spans from 52 to 80!)
One of the great examples of this mature approach was his first female-centric film, Merci La Vie (1991). He said about the picture and its follow-up Un deux trois soleil, “I’ve begun my second career. I’ve invested more of myself in these last two films.” [1993 quote, cited in Harris, p. 130]
Merci is one of Blier’s greatest achievements, in that it does open up a new period in his work while also visually “quoting” his earlier works. It also is one of his most extreme experiments with temporal and spatial displacement, as we jump backwards and forwards in time and in and out of fiction. These “jumps” are indicated to the viewer via a series of differently colored sequences, as the film is in color, b&w, and monochrome depending on the environment or time period that we’re in.
This sounds like it could be quite confusing, but Blier makes it easier to follow by giving us two lead characters who become the female equivalents of the two antiheroes in Les Valseuses (1974). In that case both of the men were charming but dumb; here the women are smarter, as Joëlle is a troublemaker (Anouk Grinberg) and the other, Camille (Charlotte Gainsbourg), is a younger student who is the more logical and less impetuous of the two. We follow them from adventure to adventure and eventually get to know them quite well.
The film’s time periods come about as a result of Camille studying for her finals about the subject of WWII and the fact that a film is being made about WWII that the two women wander into (and Joëlle becomes the star of). But is it really a film, or is it actually a different life for Joëlle, who apparently underwent a medical experiment without her knowledge: she was given a venereal disease by a crafty doctor (Depardieu) who wants to see its effects on the local male population. 
Again, when recounted in print, the plot doesn’t make much sense, but Blier was indeed a master of absurdism and so there is an inherent logic to the illogic we see. What is going on is that Blier is not only showing his two female leads bonding and protecting each other from harm; he is also making a subtle and stinging commentary on the then-current AIDS crisis, likening it to the Holocaust.
Blier addressed the changes in time and space by noting that Merci was “a channel-hopper’s film. That’s what it’s about. You zap, and suddenly it’s in black and white, it’s a war film…. Kids are great at it, they can even put on a cassette and call someone at the same time. It’s like gymnastics for viewers….” [1991 quote, cited in Harris on pp. 134-35.]
The thing that makes the film so special, though, is not the flow of events the women move though, but the fact that they are emotionally appealing characters. Camille cares much about her father (as Charlotte did with Serge Gainsbourg in real life) and Joëlle confesses her fear of dying young from the disease she’s been poisoned with. Merci is in fact such a special creation because of this counterpoint between an utterly absurd sequence of events and two deeply felt (and extremely well acted) lead characters.
The film is compelling from its opening image: Joëlle being smacked and left behind on a road in a wedding gown by her boyfriend, who drives away. Camille finds her and puts her in a shopping cart (a blatant reference to the opening of Les Valseuses) and tries to protect her throughout the rest of the film. (This is reinforced by the women’s height differential — Camille is taller and also has more common sense than Joëlle, so she comes off as an “older sister,” despite being years younger.)
The self-referential aspect seen in earlier Blier films reaches full flower here. The characters make references to the soundtrack music and the fact that they are in flashbacks. One particularly bizarre moment in the WWII plot finds Camille saying she might die, and her father (played as a younger man by Michel Blanc) notes that she can’t die, she hasn’t been born yet.
Then, in the weirdest twist, Depardieu’s doctor character urges the father to use a condom if he has sex with Joëlle. To which the father responds with a shout (after the characters have been nearly bombed by the Germans), “What period are we in, anyway? If there’s AIDS, there’s no Boches [Germans]. If there’s Boches, there’s no AIDS, and we can screw!”
Thus, Merci is not just a transitional work by Blier but an exceptionally weird and funny comedy with an undertone of longing for the past and sadness for the victims of both 20th-century nightmares. Camille’s love of her dad eventually comes to mirror Bertrand’s feelings for his father Bernard (who died shortly before he made the film); her father (as an old man, played by Jean Carmet) gives her a speech about being typecast in the acting profession and wishing he had been a “great actor.” “The plot never revolves around me… the best I can hope for now is to die playing a small part.” Clearly, this speech was built out of things that Bernard Blier said to his son as he got older.
Hopefully, someday Merci will get the cult it so richly deserves. It was hated by the critics in France, but it never even received U.S. theatrical distribution and was never released on any home-entertainment format.
As in Merci, Anouk Grinberg gives a terrific performance here, incarnating the heroine at different ages, with the jumps in time occurring suddenly. Her character is wistful, as she struggles with her overbearing mother (Myriam Boyer, Serie noire), memories of a boyfriend (Olivier Martinez) who died as a teenager, and pleading with her alcoholic father (Marcello Mastroianni) to give up booze.
The above might indicate that the film is a melodrama; it is not. There are many great comedic moments, all of them utterly absurd, and a few of the plot threads weave in an element that was new to Blier’s work, namely magical realism. Her boyfriend is labelled as dead from the first, but during the events of the film her parents both die and reappear to her, driving her as nuts in their post-death incarnations as they did in life.
In addition to the comedy there are genuinely moving moments, many of which have to do with the father character. Blier was clearly still haunted by his father’s death, and so he created an Italian father to stand in for his French father, who was an Italo-phile. Mastroianni is absolutely perfect in the role (again showing that, as an actor, he got better and better throughout his career), as his character is to be seen as both a drunken sot (who keeps wandering into the wrong apartments in the housing complex, mistaking Black families for his own) and a man who longs terribly to go back to Italy.
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One of the images that sums up the film best concerns the father: He is pranked by two teens from the apartment complex who keep appearing in his path carrying around a door for him to go through, with his correct apartment number on it. The final use of this door is absolutely moving and truly is one of the most unabashedly and beautifully sentimental moments in Blier’s cinema.
The film never was distributed in the U.S. (It did play at MoMA, where I saw Blier and Grinberg do an introduction.) Thus, there was no recognition in America of Blier’s stepping away from the more controversial “vulgar” themes found in some of his Seventies and Eighties work. What was noted by foreign critics who did see the film, though, was that Blier was finally including Black characters in his film and in Soleil is openly commenting on the manner in which poor families are huddled together in housing projects. (Though he does show the family units to be quite solid and nurturing — something Grinberg’s character has never had, thus a Black woman who becomes her surrogate mother.)
The critics clearly had misinterpreted Blier’s messages about society — his depictions of sexist characters found him branded Right-wing, but he was personally Left-leaning. When asked about it, he said,“... I believe that my films — me, perhaps not, but them, yes — are left-wing. Apart from Too Beautiful for You, where they are gentrified, all my heroes are from the wrong side of the street: thugs, lost people….” [Murat, Telerama]
Like Merci, Soleil deserves an audience. One can only hope that a programmer (or perhaps a prone-to-homages filmmaker like Wes Anderson) will move it out of the shadows and it will finally be seen as one of Blier’s best, most layered works.
Blier’s last film starring Anouk Grinberg was Mon Homme (aka My Man, 1996). This film did get a distribution deal in the U.S. and appeared on VHS (via Artificial Eye and New Yorker). It is an excellent comedy but isn’t as groundbreaking as its predecessors.
Here we find Grinberg playing a hooker who takes her work seriously (with one of her johns being played by New Wave icon Jean-Pierre Leaud!) and who decides to take a big, bizarre step when she takes pity on a homeless man (Gérard Lanvin) and then makes him her pimp. He stays in that role, collecting her money, but then cheats on her with a woman (Valeria Bruni Tedeschi) who doesn’t want to be a hooker, so he keeps seeing her (and spending money on her) as a mistress.
Blier had an interesting reaction to Mon Homme in later years. He said, “Mon Homme, this is my hardest film. The hardest. I don't claim it too much. There are times when we go too far... and there, I went there! I don't claim all my films, you know. Not Calmos, nor Mon Homme, nor My Friend's Girl. But I like Merci la vie and Un deux trois soleil….” [Murat, Telerama]
The film may have been a difficult one for Blier in terms of his scripting or perhaps his relationship with his star (this was their last film together). But it is a perfectly entertaining dark comedy that has some sexy moments and continues Blier’s run of films with complex female characters.
And it does boast one of the most interesting juxtapositions of music in any modern film. On its soundtrack can be heard the emotional, religious compositions of Henryk Gorecki and the sensual, earthy songs of Mr. Barry White.
With the turning of the century Blier’s films disappeared from America’s movie screens entirely (although one of the films did get a brief DVD release; see below). The first movie in the run of five movies that went under the radar over here was Les Acteurs (aka Actors, 2000). The film circulated among English-speaking collectors as a bootleg from a subtitled version that aired on the SBS Channel in Australia.
The line-up of familiar faces is incredible, with Blier focusing most attention on the character people and a few superstars showing up in different guises: Depardieu crashes his motorcycle into a billboard near the group; Belmondo is a homeless version of himself (who gets a great death scene as jazz appears on the soundtrack); and Delon is shooting some kind of thriller (and says about himself “I’m a silent sort of guy, with a silent sort of face...”), but then points out the empty chairs on set (“you should always have a chair for a friend who may drop in, a chair with his name...”) emblazoned with the names of two great dead French stars (Jean Gabin, Lino Ventura). He then names others who need chairs (Bourvil, Louis de Funes, Simone Signoret, and Yves Montand).
One of the more surprising scenes for fans of French film who may not have been following the private lives of the stars involves Jean-Claude Brialy, a great star of the Sixties and Seventies. Brialy had come out as gay in his later life and allowed Blier to write a humorous scene related to this fact — but in the scene Brialy retains his dignity and reminds the other actor about Brialy’s place in cinema as a star in the films of the French New Wave.
Blier did also include two women in the parade of performers: Josiane Balasko (who claims to be André Dussollier) and Maria Schneider, whom he gifted with a nice monologue. At its end, she says, “I’m Maria Schneider. This scene has been good for me.”
He referred to his cast in an interview as “an entire orchestra” and talked about how he conceived of the film (and its eventual failure at the box office): “...there, it was the public who did not want to get involved in the game, in this series of jokes and pleasantries in which the actors participated cheerfully.
“I wrote with the phone next to me, and as soon as I came up with a scene for an actor, I called him. Each time, I gave that actor the names of those who had already accepted before him, and in that fashion I finally got everyone, with a snowball effect. The problem is that there should have been others, but the budget suffered drastic cuts, which forced me to reduce my ambitions, and I had to give up scenes involving younger actors. But the scenario was shot exactly as it was written.” [Predal, jeune cinema]
One watches the film wondering what set it in motion for Blier. That is revealed in the very last scene, in which the actor Claude Brasseur acts out a scene with a gun in a rainstorm. He is interrupted when he receives a cellphone call, which turns out to be from his dead dad, the great French actor Pierre Brasseur (Children of Paradise). Blier is revealed to be the director of the film; he and the crew watch Claude talk to his father. Claude soon turns back to Bertrand, saying his father is “with a pal who’d like to talk to you.”
Bertrand takes the cellphone and begins a conversation with his father Bernard. He makes small talk and explains the film he’s making is about actors. He then responds to an unheard question, “Of course I think about you. Every day. In fact, as time goes on, I miss you even more.” [cut to credits]
This finale is about as personal as Blier’s art ever got. No more “stand-in” characters for his father, just Bertrand lamenting his death on film, at the end of his own meditation about older actors who are getting fewer lines, less calls with work, and have no idea which way to go with their lives. And, again, I note this is a thoroughly enjoyable and moving work that was never, ever seen by American viewers.
The next film by Blier is probably my least favorite, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad. It’s just that the first half or so is directly adapted from a play that Blier wrote, which reportedly ran for two years in Paris. And, surprisingly, given that many of his films contain scenes (or entire portions of the film) that could be called “stagey” (read: two-character scenes in confined environments), Les Côtelettes (aka The cutlets, 2003), which was actually a play, comes off as a more “limited” offering, although the second half in which the film opens up is a lot more engaging.
The plot revolves around two pompous older men (Philippe Noiret and Michel Bouquet) who both fall in love with the same woman — namely the woman (Farida Rahouadj, Blier’s last wife) who works as a maid for one of them. Bouquet visits Noiret at the very beginning and notes he’s there specifically “to piss you off” (a classic Blier line). Soon, the men become embroiled in the triangle, which one can easily see as a kind of allegory for colonialism.
The film moves back to the world of Seventies Blier when the character of “Death,” depicted as an older woman (Catherine Hiegel), appears and says she is going to claim the maid. The two men end up attempting to stave the Grim Reaper off by screwing her in the hospital where their beloved is slowly dying – until there’s a musical number and the whole film goes wildly out of control. (And this time the out-of-control sequence is well-designed and performed, unlike the bizarre end of Calmos in which our antiheroes end up in a rather cheap-looking simulation of a vagina.)
Its initial premise is that a schnook (Bernard Campan) gets a beautiful hooker (Monica Bellucci) to live with him by convincing her that he is a lottery winner. The schnook is revealed to have a heart condition by his doctor friend (Jean-Pierre Darroussin), who warns the hooker that she might kill him with vigorous sex. The hooker eventually disappears, and the schnook learns that she is the wife of a gangster (Depardieu), who offers to let the schnook have her for a certain sum of money (equal to his lottery winnings). That’s when it comes out that our antihero was lying and that he never won the lottery, and complications pile up.
How Much is a beautifully stylized comedy with urban late-night landscapes, beautiful camera movement, and eye-catching set design. It shows just how vibrant and amusing Blier’s scripting can be and contains two scene-stealing moments, from doctor Darroussin, who delivers a touching monologue about a nurse he one loved, and neighbor Farida Rahouadj, who instructs the schnook and the hooker in how truly great sex should sound.
It also contains one of those memorably un-p.c. lines that made critics who gave only a cursory glance to his films the notion that he was a misogynist. The line in question? “Asses are meant to be touched. This is France!”
The last Blier masterwork is Le bruit des glaçons (aka The Clink of Ice, 2010). It’s not at all subtle but is wonderfully scripted and presents us with an absurdist scenario that is both very funny and quite moving at points.
In an interview Blier spoke very eloquently about it. He called it “...my purest film. It's probably due to my age, to maturity. And more than the cancer plotline, it was for the love scenes between Anne Alvaro and Jean Dujardin that I shot the film…. When you have an incurable brain tumor, the fulfillment of the life you have left passes by necessity through the arms of a woman. We are looking for the one who will close your eyes, and it is not always the one we expect who does it.” [Murat, Telerama]
The plot is beautifully fashioned. It concerns an alcoholic author (Jean Dujardin, The Artist and the brilliant, unseen-in-the-U.S. J’Accuse by Polanski) who receives a visit one day from a gentleman (Albert Dupontel) who claims that the author is dying and that he is the author’s cancer. The author’s Russian mistress can’t see his cancer and neither can his devoted maid (Anna Alvaro, Danton).
As the film moves on, the author argues with his cancer (in the classic manner of Blier’s comedy team leads) and eventually falls in love with the only one who truly cares about him, the maid. However, the maid has received a caller as well — a woman (Myriam Boyer) who claims that she is her cancer. She is not as well dressed and articulate as the author’s cancer, but that is because she represents “the cancer of the employed,” not the “cancer of the bosses.”
The film grows in bizarre activity until a scene in which the lives of author and the maid are threatened by crooks who break into the house, and thus comes a surprisingly upbeat ending. At that point we hear the stirring and beautiful rendition of Brel’s “Ne Me Quitte Pas” by Nina Simone; other music heard in the film is composed by Ravel, Handel, Schumann, Leonard Cohen, and Felix Leclerc (a terrific song by a singer-songwriter unknown in the U.S.).
Dujardin and Dupontel are great as the lead male characters, but Alvaro truly shines as the maid. She won a Cesar for her performance.
Glaçons returned to one of Blier’s favorite techniques, direct address to the viewer. He noted that “…in silent cinema, Chaplin did it. And if Chaplin did it, why not me?… In Le bruit des glaçons, it seemed essential to me. All the characters contemplate their death. Except cancer, who doesn't need to...”
And while Glaçons is Blier’s last masterwork, his final film, Convoi exceptionnel (aka Heavy Duty) (2019) is an enjoyable farce that returns to elements contained in his previous films. First of all is a shopping cart: Les Valseuses began with Depardieu in a shopping cart being pushed by Dewaere; in the opening of Merci La Vie Charlotte Gainsbourg pushes Anouk Grinberg in a shopping cart after she finds her unconscious by the side of a road; Convoi begins with Depardieu as a homeless man pushing a shopping cart with his possessions in it.
There are twists and turns in the plot, most of them heavy on the meta side. The film begins with homeless Depardieu meeting a wealthy-looking man (Christian Clavier) on the street. The wealthy man tells Gerard that they must hurry, as they have to kill a man. Why? “It’s in the script,” says Clavier, beginning a thread that runs throughout most of the film.
Clavier is aware they’re operating from a script whereas Depardieu isn’t, until he is told. Then a further complication: new pages of the script are appearing with alarming frequency and neither man knows what he’s supposed to be doing. They wind up confronting the writers in their office and we learn then that what they’re involved in is seemingly a TV series (as the woman in charge is called a “show runner”).
By this point Blier aficionados will recognize that the filmmaker is quoting his own work, as he was wont to do over the years. The notion of older men “losing their lines” and thus their direction in life appeared in Actors, and the inevitable obligatory killing hails from Buffet Froid.
As the rest of the film unfolds, we see the plot being constructed in front of us. First, there’s a woman (Farida Rahouadj) they meet who tells a sad story about her childhood, proving that, while these people might just be characters in a drama of some kind, they do have specific memories.
Depardieu and Clavier then realize they have to kill Rahouadj, but once they do, the entire movie shifts gears — Depardieu’s long-lost girlfriend shows up and Clavier is left by his wife. The final movement of the film finds the two men’s lives completely flipped: Now Clavier is homeless and Depardieu is rich, living off the wealth of his 90-year-old wife.
Toward the end of the film the two leads talk a lot about food and how it should be prepared. One wonders why this discussion is so long, but by this time it was very clear that one of Depardieu’s main real-life addictions is food, so one gets the impression he didn’t actually need Blier’s lines to keep the scene going for as long as it does. It in fact serves another purpose, preparing us for a very sudden punchline to the film.
The finale of Convoi might be sudden and perhaps not the “final statement” that one would’ve wished for from Blier, but early on he gives us another one of his flawless discussions, this time about art and death.
In the latter half of the film, Depardieu and his girlfriend encounter a homeless man who turns out to be a film producer whose films all failed. He asks Depardieu if he knows “the difference between life and the movies.” He explains, “In life you die. In the movies, you never die. Never. For example, Mastroianni will never die.”
Convoi may not be one of the “great last films” of a great filmmaker, but it does entertain and it places Blier’s absurdist universe into the current moment. And no, neither he nor his characters will ever really die.
*****
Note: Thanks to friends Paul Gallagher and M. Faust for copies of the films. Thanks also to J-M Gregoire for references and translation, and Leonard Stoehr for inspiration.
Bibliography:
Blier, Bertrand, Going Places, J.B. Lippincott Company, 1974
Blier Bertrand, Pensées et répliques, le cherche midi, 2001, 2015
Harris, Sue, Bertrand Blier, Manchester University Press, 2001
Murat, Pierre, “Bertrand Blier en 2010 dans “Télérama” : “Pour moi, il n’y a plus de cinéma.” Telerama.
Predal, Rene, “Rencontre avec Bertrand Blier.” jeune cinéma, n°281, avril 2003
Note: Thanks to friends Paul Gallagher and M. Faust for copies of the films. Thanks also to J-M Gregoire for references and translation, and Leonard Stoehr for inspiration.
Bibliography:
Blier, Bertrand, Going Places, J.B. Lippincott Company, 1974
Blier Bertrand, Pensées et répliques, le cherche midi, 2001, 2015
Harris, Sue, Bertrand Blier, Manchester University Press, 2001
Murat, Pierre, “Bertrand Blier en 2010 dans “Télérama” : “Pour moi, il n’y a plus de cinéma.” Telerama.
Predal, Rene, “Rencontre avec Bertrand Blier.” jeune cinéma, n°281, avril 2003
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