If there is one thing that stood out for me more than anything else in Michel Ciment, it was his passion. His passion for everything and anything.
Films, books, painting, music, politics – his curiosity had no limits, and his capacity to devour information from all available sources was boundless. “He was the most refined, the most knowledgeable and the least blasé of all the film critics,” wrote Jerome Garcin, the present moderator of “Le Masque et la Plume”, France’s revered, long-running radio show, in which Ciment starred for the last 50 years.
One could easily add “the most committed” for there seemed to be nothing more important in his eyes. I was amazed by the number of pieces dedicated to him after his death, not just in professional publications for whom he was a pillar they leaned on, but also by such sworn enemies of his as Le Monde, Liberation and Les Inrockuptibles, whom he would always accuse, throughout his life, of partnering Les Cahiers du Cinema in an unholy front promoting only their own personal favorite filmmakers and badmouthing the rest.
Granted, Michel had, of course, his own favorites. Whether Kubrick or Rosi, Wilder or Resnais, Campion or Boorman, in his eyes they could do no wrong, and he defended them in long interview books, in articles, in his numerous broadcasts, or in films that were dedicated to them.
He was practically identified with Positif, the influential magazine he joined in 1963 with a piece on Orson Welles’ The Trial, and whose editor he was until the end of his life. He prided himself on the fact that its distribution was never major, but all the people that counted, and that included the likes of Martin Scorsese, were its regular readers.
Unlike its many competitors, France being a fertile ground of film publications and film opinions, he had managed to steer Positif into a path that has consistently and unwaveringly remained on the left side of the political spectrum. He resisted the temptation to participate in the New Wave enthusiasm that had taken hold of the French industry at the time (Ciment was far from being an unconditional admirer of either Godard or Truffaut and never changed his opinion about them), and displayed a distinct preference for Claude Sautet, Louis Malle and, later, Bertrand Tavernier, who used to write for the magazine. He also supported British cinema, defending the likes of John Boorman and Joseph Losey (who was then working in Britain) at a time when his rivals were referring to it as inexistant.
I remember, more than 50 years ago, a woman who at the time was the doyenne of the French critics, Vera Volmane, while discussing her various colleagues told me that Ciment was indeed very erudite, praising his French as impeccable, his taste as solid. But, she did not forget to mention, he was not French but Hungarian.
Which is partly true, since his father was a Hungarian Jew. He once confessed in a radio interview that this may have been a reason for “being attracted to filmmakers whose roots were in Eastern Europe, like Kubrick and Wilder, or those who were decidedly uneasy with their environment, such as Rosi who moved from the south of Italy to the north”. To those, one could easily add Elia Kazan, Theo Angelopoulos, Andrei Konchalovsky and Nuri Bilge Ceylan.
That Michel was an authority on cinema, quoted and respected around the world, even by people who did not see eye to eye with him, everyone agrees upon. That he was a fighter who did not just have very definite and distinct opinions, but fought for them tooth and nail, wasn’t much of a secret either – whether it was the relevance of film criticism (he co-wrote a history of French film criticism) that he noticed shrinking away around him (though France is still a privileged spot in this respect) or his verdict on films, which he did not hesitate to share as soon as he stepped out of a screening room.
Once, in Cannes, coming out of Lars von Trier’s Europa which he detested, he went around feverishly asking his many acquaintances for their opinion of the film. When I asked why it was such an issue for him, he said, “I am now counting my friends. Anyone who likes this cannot be my friend.”
But when he appreciated a film, like the recent James Gray ones, he would unwaveringly declare it “a masterpiece”, despite the skeptical looks in the eyes of his interlocutors, a definition that soon enough was doing the rounds of the festival, whether appreciatively or derisively, but always in evidence.
In the classic confrontation between creative artists and critics, Michel seemed to have a position apart. That is, while he never minced words when reviewing a film, he was probably the one film critic filmmakers seemed to be at ease with. While often refusing requests from others, they were willing not only to engage in detailed conversations with him, but also agree to have these conversions turned into books, now essential reference for all professionals.
A couple of weeks ago, the Lumiere festival in Lyon celebrated his 60 years of film criticism. It might as well have been a kind of goodbye to an old standard of film criticism which, with his death, seems to be on its way out. The kind that fearlessly spoke its mind and enthusiastically entered any battle that was necessary to stand by its opinions. No other considerations but what the critic himself found essential.
Lately, Michel, who for many years was a lecturer at the Sorbonne, was complaining that film criticism is being destroyed by populism on the one hand and elitism on the other. “The young critics today are probably far more careful than we used to be at the time, though secretly, they may envy the freedom we enjoyed. Luckily for me, I never had to depend on criticism for my living, I always had my salary at the University.”
Sadly, for us, no one appears ready or willing to pick up the challenge he has left for this profession. He will be sorely missed.
Dan Fainaru has been a film critic for more than 60 years, including two decades writing for Screen International.
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