Jean Eustache came of age as a director in the aftermath of the French New Wave, and made La maman et la putain (The Mother and the Whore) already disillusioned by the events of May ’68. Several years after the film’s 1973 release, he committed suicide. Matt Longabucco’s book-length essay reckons with Eustache’s document of political bitterness and romantic catastrophe from the standpoint of our own vexed present in which the unfulfilled legacies of the Left and the sexual revolution still haunt our hopes and darken our horizons.
A perfect accompaniment to a big screen showing of the film at Melbourne Cinémathèque on 10/7/2024.
It had been sitting on my shelves for a few years as I’d purchased after seeing a poor copy of the film during Covid lockdowns, the Jean Eustache season at Cinematheque simply gave me an excuse to retrieve from the shelves.
Matt Longabucco’s personal journey through this amazing film. As the back cover references it is in a similar vein to Nathalie Leger’s work on ‘Wanda’ (Dorothy A Publishing Project), hence not a detailed study of the film but a personal identification of such.
Just like the Fireflies Press series on individual films, there should be more writing on cinema as an art form just like this.
Thanks Ugly Duckling Presse for bringing this into the world.
I enjoyed this as a way to revisit the film - which I love - and to consider it in the context of Eustache’s personal crises, politics and eventual suicide. I found ML’s exchanges with Rachel to be sweet and I liked the inclusion of his increasingly personal anxieties, but I also think he was too timid in really committing to his fear of the resonance between Alexandre and himself. If yr going to open the door then open it!
Similarly, I don’t know and couldn’t grasp the political perspective or tradition ML comes from to be able to quite understand the context for his feelings about the Left, particularly in response to this film. There’s so much in TMATW about post ‘68 disillusionment and the calcifying and heart-rotting potential of so-called (sexual) liberation and it felt like the book sort of abstractly danced around it, leaning on quotes from people like Wendy Brown or reference to Mark Fisher to allude to a point without actually making it. This ends up lending an - I think? - unintentional bitterness to an otherwise warm and affectionate text.
Finally, there’s a point where ML recounts Alexandre ironically flipping through a book about Nazis and tossing it aside. He misses the moment in that scene where Alexandre turns the page to a scene of Holocaust atrocity and startles, momentarily shocked out of his posture of superior detachment by the reality of the cruelty he was mocking. Unable to confront what this means, he turns away from the discomfort and back to meaningless banter with his friend. Over and over again Eustache captures this refusal of responsibility, the leeching fatuous vacuousness of Alexandre’s existence even as a part of him really does want there to be something more to freedom. What use is hopefulness after the revolution? For these young people, there’s only aimless yearning.
The author mentions getting a grant for this book, which is surprising. I can't imagine how it could have taken him more than a long weekend to write the thing. The only parts of the book that provide any useful or interesting context were short emails written by the author's french girlfriend. I would have much rather read what she had to write in a long weekend that what Longabucco did write over the course of a much longer period of time.
It's insane how ones words can make a 3 and a half hour movie even more glorious. Matty Longabucco, I praise your essay on a beautiful creator and his work. And your knowledge is much appreciated.
I love this slim volume, it’s musings on a film that I never saw, but hope to one day, and as the author says, no two people see the same film. Like taking to a friend about a film you saw.