The first review of my book on Michael Winterbottom, published in Media International Australia, no. 154, Feb. 2015. Flatteringly, the reviewer deems it ‘essential reading because it provides an original and individual insight on an unclassifiable British director’.
Frame from La Roue (Gance, 1923)
Since the Christmas vacation I’ve found myself so stretched with teaching and admin duties that I’ve been unable to write very much, but have nevertheless continued watching films at every opportunity. This is a crucial aspect of the mundane discipline of film scholarship, and I usually keep a notebook to jot down details and thoughts about films I’ve seen, but even this has been more than I’ve been able to manage. However, I’ve kept a list of what I’ve watched over the last two and a half months and, laid out like this, I’m surprised to see how much I’ve actually managed to view. Some of these I’ve watched before of course, and this is not fully comprehensive since it also doesn’t include all of the films I’ve re-watched with students for modules I lecture on. It’s perhaps not a fantastically diverse range of titles and there’s a great deal of American cinema there, but there are some fascinating, beautiful, and very funny films among them.
- Any Old Port! (James Horne, 1932) USA
- Bastards (Deborah Perkin, 2014) UK
- Below Zero (James Parrott, 1930) USA
- Bicycle (Michael B. Clifford, 2014) UK
- Birdman: Or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) (Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, 2014) USA
- Bitter Lake (Adam Curtis, 2015) UK
- Boyhood (Richard Linklater, 2014) USA
- Broken Blossoms (D.W. Griffith, 1919) USA
- Bumping into Broadway (Hal Roach, 1919) USA
- Chef (Jon Favreau, 2014) USA
- Chickens Come Home (James Horne, 1931) USA
- City Girl (F.W. Murnau, 1930) USA
- Clueless (Amy Heckeling, 1995) USA
- Dom Hemingway (Richard Shepard, 2013) UK
- Filth (Jon Baird, 2013) UK
- The Fixer Uppers (Charley Rogers, 1935) USA
- Four Weddings and a Funeral (Mike Newell, 1994) UK
- The Freshman (Fred C Newmeyer, 1925) USA
- Gamer (Mark Neveldine, Brian Taylor, 2009) USA
- Groundhog Day (Harold Ramis, 1993) USA
- Hanna (Joe Wright, 2011) USA/UK/Germany
- Into the Abyss (Werner Herzog, 2011) USA/UK/Germany
- Into the Woods (Rob Marshall, 2014) USA/UK/Canada
- Jingle all the Way (Brian Levant, 1996) USA
- John Wick (Chad Stahelski, 2014) USA/Canada/China
- Joy Division (Grant Gee, 2007) UK/USA
- The Lady and the Beard (Yasujiro Ozu, 1931) Japan
- The Live Ghost (Charley Rogers, 1934) USA
- The Man who Fell to Earth (Nicolas Roeg, 1976) UK
- Night at the Museum: Secret of the Tomb (Shawn Levy, 2014) USA/UK
- Paddington (Paul King, 2014) UK/France
- Parade (Jacques Tati, 1974) France
- The Pixar Story (Leslie Iwerks, 2007) USA
- The Playhouse (Eddie Cline, Buster Keaton, 1921) USA
- Pusher III (Nicolas Winding Refn, 2005) Denmark
- La Roue (Abel Gance, 1923) France
- Scrooge (Brian Desmond Hurst, 1951) UK
- Shaun the Sheep Movie (Mark Burton, Richard Starzak, 2015) UK/France
- Sherlock Jr (Buster Keaton, 1924) USA
- Singin’ in the Rain (Stanley Donen, 1952) USA
- They Live (John Carpenter, 1988) USA
- Trance (Danny Boyle, 2013) UK/USA/France
- 22 Jump Street (Phil Lord, Christopher Miller, 2014) USA
- Under the Skin (Jonathan Glazer, 2013) UK/USA/Switzerland
- Upside Down: The Creation Records Story (Danny O’Connor, 2012) UK
- Warm Bodies (Jonathan Levine, 2013) USA/Canada
- We are the Best! (Lukas Moodysson) Sweden
- What we do in the Shadows (Jemaine Clement, Taika Waititi, 2015) NZ
Introduction to Nicolas Roeg’s The Man Who Fell to Earth (1976)
Bruce Bennett (Lancaster University) Dukes Cinema 5th Jan, 2015.
(This is the introductory public talk I gave for a screening of this film as part of the current season of SF films distributed by the BFI, ‘Days of Fear and Wonder’).
The Man Who Fell to Earth is the fifth feature film directed by the British film-maker, Nicolas Roeg who produced a series of remarkable films from the late 1960s onwards that extend from the horror film Don’t Look Now (1973) starring Julie Christie, a made-for-TV movie of Samson and Delilah (1996) starring Dennis Hopper, a version of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (1993), through to the children’s film The Witches (1990), his very dark adaptation of Roald Dahl’s novel that starred Angelica Huston. Roeg is 86 now, but is still working – his autobiography was published in 2013 (taking its title from a line in The Man Who Fell to Earth) and his last feature film, Puffball, an adaptation of a Fay Weldon novel, was released in 2007. It’s a fascinating film, a strange supernatural fantasy about the Irish countryside, birth and women’s experience that starred Miranda Richardson, Rita Tushingham and Donald Sutherland. The Observer film reviewer Philip French described it accurately as ‘A curious mixture of Cold Comfort Farm, Straw Dogs and Rosemary’s Baby’, and it explores a number of themes that are present throughout his films – sexuality, subjective experience, the irrational – and has an immediately recognisable visual style, but sadly, it was never properly released in Britain and disappeared almost without trace (French 2008).
Although his films are marked by an interest in experimentation, Roeg’s route into film-making was quite conventional. At 17, after the war, he joined the army as a paratrooper and then left after two years to take up an apprenticeship in Marylebone Studios, a small production company in London where he made the tea and ran errands. Over the next few years he moved from one studio to another, working his way up from the bottom, learning about editing, producing, screenwriting, sound design, and the industrial process of commercial film-making. As he’s observed, at the time there were no film schools or books on how to make films, so the only way to learn was from the inside, picking up trade secrets and techniques from others in the business. He graduated to working with a camera crew at MGM first of all as focus puller, then camera operator and eventually rising to the position of director of photography (or Lighting Cameraman) – the woman or man whose job is to work with the director and production designer in devising the overall look of a film. He was Director of Photography on a number of striking films in the 1960s including Roger Corman’s lurid treatment of Edgar Allan Poe’s short story, Masque of the Red Death (1964), Francois Truffaut’s SF film, Fahrenheit 451 (1966), John Schlesinger’s adaptation of Thomas Hardy’s novel, Far from the Madding Crowd (1967), Richard Lester’s experimental melodrama, Petulia (1968), also working on David Lean’s epics, Lawrence of Arabia (1962) and Doctor Zhivago (1965).
Having worked his way up through the industry, Roeg was keen to move to directing, which he did in 1968 with the extraordinary film, Performance (1970). Roeg was approached by the film’s screenwriter and director Donald Cammell to work as Director of Photography, but negotiated a co-directing role, and since Cammell was a novice, he was happy with this arrangement. The film stars Mick Jagger as a wealthy, dissolute rock star, and was commissioned by Warner Brothers to exploit a new youth audience, but they were so unhappy with the resulting film, which is a queer, sexually explicit hybrid of British gangster film, European art-house film and psychedelic pop musical, that it was shelved for nearly two years and finally released with almost no publicity. Warner’s apparently threatened to sue Roeg and Cammell for failing to deliver the film they’d promised and a film reviewer in Life magazine described it as, ‘the most completely worthless film I have ever seen since I began reviewing’ (Preston 2013). However, their collaboration on the film seems to have been extremely important for both directors, who went on to make a series of distinctive, compelling films. Cammell was far less prolific, completing just another three films in an unhappy career in which he struggled for financing and control over his work, before shooting himself in 1996, but there are lots of parallels between their films. In formal terms, both directors’ films are often marked by a quite radically fragmented, non-linear narrative structure, vivid colour, and hallucinatory images that undermine the realistic elements of their films. Thematically their films are difficult to place within genres and are marked by a frank, unsensational depiction of sex, and a refusal to explain fully what is taking place.
Roeg’s films have always hovered around the mainstream but they are characterised by a tendency towards ambiguity, which can make them perplexing and challenging experiences, but the intention is not to confuse or frustrate the viewer but to draw her or him in. He suggests in his autobiography that the problem with much film and TV is the tendency toward redundancy or over-explanation to ensure that viewers are engaged with the action. On the contrary, he argues, ‘the more you explain something, the less interested the audience. The less said, the better’ (Roeg 2013:44-45). One of the particular attractions of the medium of cinema for Roeg is its economy, its minimalism, the way that a complexity of meaning can be crystallised in a single image.
Also, in some ways cinema is the medium best suited to representing the experience of thought. Roeg has said, ‘My mind is drifting the whole time; various things are popping into my head’, and the films often reproduce this sense of ideas and associations cropping up unexpectedly by inserting shots into scenes without explanation (Roeg 2013:150). For Roeg, this is not a matter of gratuitous experimentation, or self-consciously avant-garde pretention, but rather it is an attempt to convey the way that in our heads we are continually jumping backwards and forwards rather than living purely in the present: ‘that’s how I always imagined how people feel about time, how they review their lives: moving between memory, the present moment and their hopes or fears of what’s to come’ (Roeg 2013:152).
So, although Roeg is a highly competent technician who understands a great deal about the craft and logistical challenges of commercial film-making with major studios, he is nevertheless fascinated by unconventional ways of assembling a film. As he explains, ‘There’s not a right way of doing something and a wrong way. There’s a right way – and another way. So let’s take a chance on the other way’ (Roeg 2013: 17). This comment may be the key to understanding his approach to film-making, that these films are exercises in doing things ‘another way’, in seeing things ‘in another way’, and also in examining characters who experience the world in another way.
The Man who Fell to Earth is adapted from a novel by Walter Tevis, who also wrote The Hustler and The Color of Money, which were adapted into Paul Newman films. The novel tells the story of an alien who has travelled to earth from a dying planet, in search of a refuge his people can escape to. Although he struggles with the heat and the stronger gravity of earth, like an anthropologist he has studied earth’s culture from a distance by watching television and so is able to pass himself off more or less successfully as human. The film is a relatively ‘straight’ adaptation, and follows the narrative of the novel closely, foregrounding some of the book’s allusions to the second coming, to Greek myth, and to colonialism. It is a science fiction film, but like many of his films, it has quite a loose relationship to the established conventions of the genre. However, Nicolas Roeg’s style is perfectly suited to telling the story of a stranger in a strange land. The film is marked by startling, ambiguous images, including a number of mirror shots – an image of intimate exposure that Roeg says is ‘the very essence of cinema’ – an interest in bodies, desire and sexuality – something that is left implicit in the novel – sometimes disjointed editing, and a striking use of music and sound in conjunction with the images (Roeg 2013: 175). The experience of alienation and disconnection from one’s environment and from other people that is a constant preoccupation of his films is realised most directly in this film which attempts to depict another way of being in the world.
This is expressed perfectly through the casting of a rock star in the central role. As with Performance, and Bad Timing, which featured Art Garfunkel playing an obnoxious, narcissistic psychoanalyst, and which was described by the disgusted head of Rank, the distributors, as ‘a sick film made by sick people for sick people’ (Preston 2013), this is no doubt partly dictated by commercial considerations; casting one of the most famous musicians on the planet as the lead was a financially smart move, but Roeg claims he chose Bowie because he thought he would suit the role. He had wanted to cast the novelist Michael Crichton after meeting him at a dinner party since Crichton, like the alien in the novel is extremely tall, and apparently Peter O’Toole was also considered, but after seeing a BBC documentary about Bowie, Roeg decided he’d be ideal for the role. Like those of Mick Jagger and Art Garfunkel, Bowie’s performance has an awkwardness and self-consciousness, which can come across as technical incompetence when placed alongside the confident, naturalistic performance style of a professional screen actor, but this difference is precisely what drew Roeg to working with him:
‘There’s a very fine line between actor and performer. Performers have to have an extraordinary gift of projection or personality. You can learn certain things like voice projection, or to always look at someone and then vary it but there’s something odd about the art of performance. In the Hollywood Bowl there were something like 60,000 people for Mick Jagger. How many straight actors have had 60,000 people turn up for a single performance? Mick gives a performance unlike anyone else. It’s an extraordinary piece of acting art’ (Roeg 2013: 119-120).
Similarly, what Bowie produces in this film is a very unusual performance but one that perfectly suits the character since, as Roeg pointed out to executives at Warner Brothers who were sceptical about the casting, this is a film about an alien pretending to be human. Thus, like many science fiction narratives about aliens and monsters, this film about what it is to be an alien, is in fact a film about the strangeness and implausibility of being human.
Philip French (2008). ‘Puffball’. The Observer. 20 July 2008 (http://www.theguardian.com/film/2008/jul/20/drama2)
John Preston (2013). ‘Nicolas Roeg Interview: the director who fell to earth’. The Telegraph. 19 July 2013. (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/film/10185575/Nicolas-Roeg-interview-the-director-who-fell-to-Earth.html)
Nicolas Roeg (2013). The World is ever Changing. London: Faber and Faber
My new essay on Avatar, ‘Loving the Alien: Indigenous Protest and Neo-colonial Violence in James Cameron’s Avatar’ has just been published in the handsomely produced volume, Immigrant Protest: Politics, Aesthetics and Everyday Dissent (New York; SUNY Press), edited by Imogen Tyler and Katarzyna Marciniak. A pre-publication draft can be found on my academia.edu page here: https://lancaster.academia.edu/BruceBennett
On June the 9th and 10th I attended a two-day symposium on ‘Transport in the Media’ hosted by the Centre for Mobilities Research (CeMoRe) at Lancaster University and organised by Rachel Aldred from the University of Westminster. I was asked to give a 10-minute response to the first day’s presentations and discussions on the morning of the second day and an audio recording of my response is posted here on Rachel’s blog, along with an overview of the two-day event: http://rachelaldred.org/whatson/transport-in-the-media-write-up/
This extraordinary photograph says a great deal about contemporary Hollywood. Taken with a phone at the Oscars ceremony when the host Ellen DeGeneres stepped off stage to take a picture of herself with Meryl Streep as a stunt to try to get a record-breaking number of retweets, the photograph has indeed reportedly broken records for the most retweeted and most rapidly retweeted photograph circulated on Twitter.
The image itself reproduces a very familiar fantasy of Hollywood stardom, crystallizing the impression that life is a continual party for the wealthy and the beautiful, but at the same time it demonstrates the paradoxical double register of stardom, in which we are periodically reminded that stars are also just like the rest of us. On the face of it, the image appears to be an authentic, spontaneous snap; formally it resembles a photograph anybody with a smartphone might have taken at one time or another. This impression is reinforced by the presence of Kenyan actor Lupita Nyong’o’s brother, Peter in the bottom right, who accompanied his sister to the event and who has become in an instant a globally recognisable individual after joining the group of stars who pushed themselves into the frame. But of course, no matter how provisional and unplanned the photograph itself might appear to be, there is nothing accidental about the staging of the event and the distribution of people around the space. It is a contingent document of a very carefully staged industrial promotional event.
Nevertheless, there are a number of historically significant dimensions to this image. The most obvious of these is that at the centre of the picture is a lesbian woman, the host for the global TV broadcast, while just visible at the back is Lupita Nyong’o, who won the ‘Best Supporting Actress’ award for 12 Years a Slave (McQueen, 2013), the film that won the ‘Best Picture’ award. It is therefore an attractive visualisation of the American film industry’s self-representation as a liberal, inclusive and historically reflective film culture. More broadly and more significantly, however, at a point at which Hollywood distributors are abandoning the distribution of 35mm prints, it represents both the integration of cinema with digital communications technologies in a shifting screen culture, as well as an increasingly indistinct and complex relationship between film and television (as embodied, for instance by the presence of Kevin Spacey who is probably best known right now for his starring role in the series House of Cards, which was produced by David Fincher and is the first in-house production by the on-demand internet streaming service, Netflix). The real historical significance of this image lies not so much in the speed with which it has been circulated, nor in its content, but in its status as a synecdoche for the contemporary global entertainment complex.
Bruce Bennett (Lancaster University, UK)
‘Deserting the human race’: Introduction to La Belle et La Bête (Jean Cocteau, 1946)
Dukes cinema, 27th Jan, 2014
(This was the introduction I gave for the screening of a new digital restoration of this film, which was screened within a series of ‘Gothic’ films)
La Belle et La Bête (Beauty and the Beast) is the second of the six extant films that were directed by the prolific French poet, novelist, playwright, screenwriter, artist and director, Jean Cocteau.
The film is an adaptation of the French fairy-tale that was first published as a novella by Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve in 1740 and then later reworked and shortened by Jeanne-Marie Le Prince de Beaumont. Published in 1756, this is the version of the story that has become the key source for all subsequent adaptations. Beauty and the Beast is one of the most well known examples of the ‘literary fairy tale’. These were first produced by groups of writers, chiefly aristocratic women, in 18th France who gathered in Salons. Thus they were initially intended for educated adult audiences, as upper-class women would entertain themselves and one another by retelling stories adapted from traditional folk tales, improvising and embellishing them. Storytelling in this context was a form of competitive intellectual game-playing as well as entertainment, a demonstration of the wit and creativity of the storyteller.
Literary historians have argued that these stories were often a coded means by which the women could imagine how their restricted lives might be improved – these fantasy narratives were a highly symbolic and oblique way of telling allegorical stories about contemporary reality as they experienced it. At a certain point in the 18th century, however, women such as Beaumont began transcribing and publishing the stories, which made them available to a wider audience and, in particular, to bourgeois and aristocratic children. As the audience for the stories changed, the function of them changed too so that one of the principal aims of the literary fairy tale became that of providing moral instruction to children – the very small minority of children who could read or were read to. For instance, the version of Beauty and the Beast that Cocteau worked from was published in a volume pointedly entitled, The Children’s Journal, or Conversations between a wise governess and several of her pupils of the highest quality.
There are certain features that came to characterise the literary fairy tale: they were short (so that they were reproducible – they could be easily read and memorised and lend themselves to retelling and adaptation); they were didactic or instructional (teaching the readers certain values or ideologies); and, in particular, they restate repeatedly the message that power lies naturally with the aristocracy.
For instance, in terms of its ideological significance, Beaumont’s version, is often understood as a story that asserts the importance of honouring promises, the value of women’s self-denial (sacrificing their desires for the interests of others), and uncritical devotion to one’s father. However, there is, of course, some ambiguity in the story, which is one of the reasons why Beauty and the Beast has remained fascinating to readers and audiences. Beaumont was a progressive thinker in the context of the period in which she lived. As a governess herself, she wanted women to have more access to education and more prominent social roles. At the same time, however, like many of the women attending the salons she was committed to the patriarchal social structure in which she lived. Similarly, Beauty can be understood as brave and determined (she is far more courageous than her father or the other men in the story) or she can be seen as submissive, while the beast, the symbolic epitome of masculinity, is both repulsive and fascinating, violently aggressive and loving, animalistic and civilised – as one of Beauty’s sisters observes in the film, for instance, in a sardonic comment on masculinity, ‘Lots of husbands are hairy and horned’. Jack Zipes suggests that what makes the story so powerful, and why it has been retold so regularly, and also adapted for film numerous times, is precisely that it lays bare and dramatises these contradictions. The story concerns characters wrestling with contradictory desires, instincts and obligations.
Production began on the film in August 1945 and it was apparently a difficult shoot. In the immediate aftermath of the war in which resources were limited, they were working with old, unreliable cameras that frequently jammed, damaged lenses, film stock of onconistsent quality, and even had trouble sourcing fabric for dressing sets and cutting costumes. It took them a lot of work, for example, to find unpatched sheets for a scene where they’re drying linen in the garden. The house where Beauty and her family live was also next to a military airfield and their sound-recordings were often ruined by training flights passing overhead. Cocteau himself suffered for much of the shoot with skin rashes and excruciatingly painful boils that led him to resume an opium addiction, and he claimed that his hair turned white over the months spent working on the film. In his production diary, he reconciles himself to these difficulties with the consolation that heroic suffering is essential for the production of poetry.
However, these difficulties aren’t evident in the film, which is visually sumptuous and has a lightness of touch and a clarity that belies the frustrations of the shoot, and it manages to capture the strangeness of the fairytale narrative very successfully.
Cocteau didn’t direct many films – although he enjoyed collaborating, he saw himself primarily as a poet, and preferred to work alone – but what drew him to cinema was the sense that it was the best medium in which to convey a sense of what he called the ‘Marvellous’ – inexplicable, irrational interruptions in the fabric of normality. As he explained it,
The Marvellous would be […] a simple human miracle, very commonplace, which consists of giving to persons and objects a certain “unusualness” which defies analysis. (43, 1977)
This is a concept that was central to surrealist art and literature (and André Breton’s writing in particular), and so it is unsurprising that Cocteau’s first film, Blood of a Poet (1930), is one of the avant-garde classics of surrealist cinema.
In terms of style and structure, Beauty and the Beast is a much more conventional film – Cocteau said that Blood of a Poet was a ‘film for fifty film connoisseurs’, whereas Beauty and the Beast was made for a wider audience. Nevertheless, it retains a number of elements – strange, unexplained details, photographic effects, abrupt edits, as well as theatrical tricks such as ‘Pepper’s ghost’ – that are familiar from surrealist cinema in order to render the ‘unusualness’ of the space inhabited by the beast. These include the uncanny living statues in the beast’s mansion, the candelabras supported by human arms, the use of slow-motion and reverse-motion cinematography, the rather disjointed narrative, the disconnected relationship between music and on-screen action and the use of silence, and the curiously theatrical style of some of the performances.
But, of course, the figure of the beast himself is the clearest embodiment of Cocteau’s concept of the marvellous – the inexplicable, irrational disruption of everyday reality. Perhaps the most fascinating and uncanny element of the film, he is played by Jean Marais, Cocteau’s lover, who had suggested the idea for the film in the first place. Like Cocteau, he too suffered during the film since Cocteau insisted that rather than wear a rubber mask, his make-up should be glued painstakingly to his skin so that his own face remained visible underneath the fur. As a result, he recalled:
It took me five hours to make up – that meant thirteen hours a day in the studio. Because of the fangs attached to my teeth, all I could eat was mush, and that by the spoonful. Between takes I scarcely opened my mouth lest the makeup become unglued: no one understood what I said, and that exasperated me.
But the consequence of this physical discomfort is a very memorable cinematic figure. Indeed, for Cocteau, Marais’ commitment to art was an inspiration and he wrote that, as a consequence of this passion, when Marais played the beast he went through a transformation, ‘deserting the human race for the animal race.’ This vivid phrase describes both the transformation undergone by the actor, and also the decision made by Beauty within the narrative to offer herself to the beast. More broadly still, it is suggestive of the potential of cinematic fantasy to transport the viewer to an imaginary and impossible space.
The beast’s spectacular costume is the central attraction of a visually rich film – the production designer used paintings by Johannes Vermeer and prints by the French illustrator Gustave Doré as reference points for designing the interiors. This is a film that is all about light in one respect – it is central to the film’s aesthetic and the precise lighting scheme establishes a distinction between the glowing sunshine of Beauty’s world, and the shadowy world of the Beast, which is characterised by low-key chiaroscuro lighting, silhouettes and back-lighting, luminous smoke and fog, and dark rooms and corridors punctuated by sparkling highlights. Cocteau chose Agfa film stock over Kodak because, he said, he wanted the film to have the ‘soft gleam of hand-polished old silver’. It is a very accurate description of the film’s distinctive antiqued metallic lustre
Cocteau was in an unhappy situation more generally when they were making the film. He had lived in Paris during the occupation and was accused by the BBC in 1944 of being a collaborator having published an article in 1942 praising the Nazi sculptor Arno Breker (one of Hitler’s favourite artists). He wasn’t a fascist, and he was investigated and acquitted after the war by two tribunals, but would no doubt have been especially keen to put the war behind him.
Jack Zipes has suggested one of the remarkable features of Cocteau’s version of Beauty and the Beast is that it emphasises more strongly than any other film adaptation, the oedipal dimensions of the story: the daughter’s self-sacrificing devotion to her father. This is undoubtedly a plausible interpretation of the film, and the simple story invites a number of others; the American composer, Philip Glass, who has written operas based on three of Cocteau’s films including this one (wherein Glass’s opera was performed in exact synchronisation with the film), suggests it is a film about ‘the nature of the creative process’, as well as a love story. However, it seems quite likely that a powerful attraction of the film both for Cocteau, and for audiences watching it in the ruined and impoverished environment of post-war Europe, is also that it invites us to step into a fantasy world, a simpler, apparently innocent space (like the characters within the film who pass back and forth between normality and the magical space occupied by the Beast). The film opens with a written message from Cocteau, himself, inviting viewers to suspend their cynicism and watch the film with a childlike simplicity.
The film’s initial success – and the fact that it has been revived repeatedly culminating with this pristine new restoration – suggests that cinema audiences have always been very willing to take up the invitation.
Jonathan Cott, ‘A Conversation with Philip Glass on La Belle et La Bete’ from the booklet accompanying the 1995 CD release of Glass’s opera.
Arthur B. Evans (1977) Jean Cocteau and his Films of Orphic Identity. London: Associated University Presses
Elizabeth Sprigge, Jean-Jacques Kim (1968) Jean Cocteau: The Man and the Mirror. London: Victor Gollancz
Francis Steegmuller (1970) Cocteau: A Biography. London: Macmillan.
Jack Zipes (1994) Fairytale as Myth/Myth as Fairytale. Lexington: University of Kentucky