French filmmakers have always liked playing with darkness. An influenced darkness, which has fed on the ravages of history (the massacre of 1914-18, the disaster of 1940). A darkness rooted in an entire literary tradition, from Mirbeau to Zola, from Maupassant to Jules Renard (the preferred writers of Clouzot and Duvivier), which found new strength in the evolution of the crime novel – from Simenon to the Série noire – and its existential drifting. Darkness may also have been a way of opposing the rose-colored universe, the happy ending imposed by producers and financers, the false optimism in official ideologies: obviously that of the Vichy period, which Le Corbeau subverts with violence, but also that of socialist realism and its positive heroes. In this sense, La Ferme des sept péchés is incredibly modern. The violence, generosity, and precision of the social condemnation to which Courier is so devoted, do not stop him from being a violent, mean, quarrelsome person, a contradiction which was, at that time, almost unthinkable for that sort of character. With its fierce bitterness, Quai des Orfèvres also makes fleeting attacks at many cliches, as does La Vérité sur Bébé Donge. Decoin’s direction evokes the direction of many American film noirs (Preminger) – while Danielle Darrieux brings to mind the leading ladies in Laura and Where the Sidewalk Ends. La Vérité sur Bébé Donge surprises for the feminist force of its intent, which sets the film apart from American noirs and their much more Manichaean approach to female characters. It is precisely their more raw, adult, day-to-day handling of sentimental and sexual issues which distinguishes French noirs from their American counterparts: Simone Renant’s character in Quai des Orfèvres has no equivalents in Hollywood, and the female lead in La Ferme des sept péchés bends the rules in an extraordinary fashion. There is also, however, a more intimate approach to the stories. The French directors let the action revolve around a central location – a restaurant, a house and its courtyard, a farm – perhaps including an unforgettable escape: the dance hall in Voici le temps des assassins, the music hall in Quai des Orfèvres. There is no wandering, no long distances: those are American traits. Here, the interest lies in closed worlds. Daily darkness can lead into an unfathomable abyss. Compared to Danièle Delorme, the American leading ladies seem like little girls. And the end of the film by far exceeds even the darkest of authors. And yet, there is no showiness in this attitude. Darkness, which sometimes proves too insistent and pronounced in less talented directors and overly theoretical screenwriters (a flaw of Jacques Sigurd), is instead an organic part of the vision and approach of great auteurs like Clouzot and Duvivier. And it is the raison d’être for their films. So much so, that they manage to dilute the pessimism with phenomenal moments of social realism (the masterful portrayal of Les Halles and of Gabin’s restaurant in Voici le temps des assassins, on par with that of the worlds crossed by Jouvet in Quai des Orfèvres) and, more paradoxically, of love and compassion. Blazes of light, which make it worth clinging to this dog’s life.

Bertrand Tavernier