How did you start out in cinema and what made you want to make a career of it?
I’d been interested in cinema since the age of 14 or 15. At that time, and given my background, people were hoping I’d go into typing and shorthand. I happened to be a good student, I went to high school, graduated, did higher studies, got a degree in philosophy and began working in the national education system, but wasn’t tenured. I’d never forgotten the idea of cinema and so I took the exam to get into the IDHEC film school, didn’t make the cut and began a career kind of as an “intellectual in cinema,” wrote for the Cahiers du cinema and occasionally freelanced. Then 1968 happened. I’d finished my philosophy degree and the Sorbonne opened a masters program in cinema; so I was able to do a Masters in cinema esthetics, since that was one of the fields they recognized. Classes in cinema were created throughout France without having any real teachers, and I got a job at the Université de Besonçon right after my Masters, with a certain Jean Rouch as head of my department, who chaired the Ethnology Department at the Université de Besonçon and was obviously one of the first to have a cinema course in ethnology. I stayed there for two years. Being an intellectual wasn’t satisfying enough for me. I started telling all my friends I wanted to get out of teaching and go into cinema, no matter what the job was. I started interning on films in whatever capacity I could. It was a little out of place: I was older than the others, my level of studies didn’t correspond to what I was doing, but I did that work for two years, was paid more or less under the table to do whatever was available, which didn’t really satisfy me either, but at least it got me out in the field. And then I met someone crucial to my life, thanks to a friend named of mine Andréa Ferréol, who’d just finished La Grande bouffe. I was on the jury for the Festival of Hyères, which was at Toulon that year, and there was a section called Different Cinema. It was a rather magical year because Chantal Akerman and Werner Schroeter were there, and the president of the jury was Jean Douchet, whom I’d had as a teacher. And when I got home, Andréa Ferréol called me to say, “I have a friend named Simon Mizrahi, who was press agent on La Grande bouffe. He’s looking for an assistant and I think it would be great for you.” I thought press agent just meant petit-fours and cocktail parties, and I didn’t see at all what I could get out of it. However, I went to see what it was about and I met the guy and, sure, he was a press agent, but one who did work similar to Pierre Rissient, except his field of combat was Italian cinema: he’s the one who got people to rediscover Italian cinema in France. I worked with him for seven years. After three or four years, we were nearly partners. He hated all French cinema, and hated the Nouvelle Vague, among things. He was on the side of the magazine Positif. So I took Godard, Truffaut and Rohmer. After a while, he started a production company, but didn’t want me as a partner; so I started my own. Over the seven years, first as an assistant, then as an associate, I managed to see everything, and that’s how things began. At that time, Margaret Menegoz had just started at Films du Losange as a production assistant. We’d met on Perceval le Gallois, I believe. And I also knew Barbet Schroeder, and that’s when, after being out of the circuit for four years, Barbet decided it was time to get Jacques Rivette back in the saddle. Rohmer agreed; at the time, Losange was still mostly owned by Barbet and Rohmer. Margaret was very afraid of Rivette and she had a Rohmer movie under way; so Barbet asked me, “You want to be a producer? You’ve started a production company? Then here you go: Le Pont du Nord and Jacques Rivette.” It was my first film. Then I did Godard’s Passion.

Who were the great filmmakers for you as a student?
I’m truly a child of the Nouvelle Vague. What first hit home with me as a movie-goer was Les 400 Coups. I identified with it for obvious reasons: age, the situation, the divorced parents… I had older friends; I was born just after the war and went to Victor Hugo high school, which was in the middle of the Jewish quarter at the time. My girlfriends had brothers born right before the war, who were therefore in 12th grade or in a college prep course when we were in 8th grade, and we went to the movies with the big brothers. There were high school film clubs that were open to us, even when the schools weren’t co-ed, there was the cinematheque, and you could read the Cahiers du cinema. Since we couldn’t afford to buy the Cahiers, we went to the basement at Maspero’s bookstore, read it there and bought one copy for several of us. All of Godard’s first movies were rated R, but at Saint Germain Village, the emergency exit was on the street behind the theater; so friends would go in, we’d wait at the emergency exit, they’d open the door and we’d sneak into the theater when the lights went out. And of course, the Cahiers was the leading guide for films, and there was the cinematheque, where we’d go watch all of Hitchcock and Fritz Lang and all the American movies you had to see.

What was the attitude of the Nouvelle Vague – critics turned filmmakers – towards the press and producers?
They were all producers. It was completely logical. Their idea was that anyone could make movies, that money shouldn’t be an obstacle, that you had to break the system and shoot films with total freedom, with the money you had, and not turn money into an obstacle or a taboo. Even someone like Rivette, who never wanted to have his own production company, has a real sense of production. He always knows how to adapt to constraints: if you can’t afford to do one thing, you find another idea and do it differently. Out of that came Films du Losange, and Le Carosse with François Truffaut. Chabrol’s case is a little more complicated, with supervising agents who accompanied him in his work, like Braumberger. Naturally, my approach fit in with theirs; they never would’ve told me not to go ahead, that I was nuts. In fact, it totally followed their logic and was absolutely normal. So not only did they not discourage me, but they actually did the opposite, like Barbet suggesting Rivette to me, or Godard telling me a year later that he needed a producer for Passion. They realized my approach fit in with theirs and they completely understood where I was coming from. I remember Jean-Luc telling me, when we started Passion, “I don’t know how all this will end up – I’m sure it’ll end poorly, since it always does – but at least one thing’s for sure: you’ll learn a lot.” And his promise came true beyond my wildest dreams. Every day, I learned a new production lesson with Jean-Luc, who’s a great, great producer. And it also meant seeing Jean Pierre Rassamm every three days; it was more fun, and more energetic, than it is today. And at the same time, with Mizrahi, I met Bertolucci, who tied in completely with the Nouvelle Vague; Bellochio; Ferreri for four films; and great Italian comedy. And instead of thinking, “Who does she think she is?” – but without taking it easy on me, and still being rigorous and showing extreme violence in their professional demands – these people were extraordinarily generous.

Was this freedom in production a typically French movement they joined, or was it international?
It was generational. An Italian magazine was created immediately after the Cahiers, which was the Italian equivalent. Bellochio, Bertoluccio, Ferreri… they all became producers. Bertolucci gave Comolli the subject for his first movie, and Comolli was Bellochio’s co-screenwriter for his first movie. At the time, Jean Louis was editor in chief of the Cahiers and I created my first production company with him. All of Bernardo’s generation is a “half generation”, on the cusp of the Nouvelle Vague generation, and they’re a bit older than me. There was an intellectual movement of cinematic reflection going on between Italy and France at the time.

In the U.S. as well, the big-studio system was falling apart and production was opening up.
That came later, when Coppola and the others started using the Nouvelle Vague as a model. It was more at the end of the 70s and the beginning of the 80s. But, indeed, it didn’t come out of the blue: it happened because the Nouvelle Vague was being shown in all the colleges, the movies fascinated them, and all of a sudden they discovered all these guys made films on a shoestring budget and were self-produced. When Spielberg and the others started doing it, they do it on an American scale, but intellectually, of course, one came from the other. The whole American independent film movement, with Cassavetes, etc., is a result of the French Nouvelle Vague, which, seen from that point of view, was clearly broader than its immediate success and impact.

In addition to the solutions these filmmakers came up with for themselves and the people who helped them out, did the new production methods profoundly change the way movies were produced in general?
It’s a bit like the legacy of May ’68: it depends on whether you see the glass as half full or half empty. Among the determining factors was André Malraux, a key character at the national level, who came up with the idea of an advance on box office receipts, etc., and I’m sure that in a certain way, he was motivated by the fact this movement existed. Esthetically, and since he was an intelligent man, he realized it was an important movement, that something had changed in the film industry, and that it was therefore important to support this independent movement, and that it was the role of the Minister of Culture and of the State. Considering the times and the setting – there was actually a strong rightwing government – De Gaulle’s genius was in naming Malraux as Minister of Culture: he was rightwing at the time, but it took a certain talent to appoint him, since he had a rather strong history of being on the left and no experience in the political sphere, and made proposals that left everyone speechless. And yet De Gaulle was smart enough to let it happen, and we still live on that today. Those measures saved creative French filmmaking, which is really quite something.

And did the collapse in European cinema come from a lack of State support, as opposed to French cinema, which managed to maintain a certain level of creativity?
It was due to several factors. First, the system was on its last legs. State aid was a crucial factor, but wasn’t enough. We really saw something happen there, and we didn’t have André Malraux: we had Jack Lang, who did a lot to maintain the system and adapt it. But he was just following up on what already existed, not coming up with something new. The big blow was TV. And Lang’s idea saved us, as opposed to in Italy, where the State didn’t implement any measures. Lang was smart enough to say, “Watch out, television equals a danger cinema; so they’re going to pay.” And thanks to that, French cinema survived twenty years. Today, we’re actually victims of this very system. The negative side effect is that suddenly, because they pay, TV stations in general say, “OK, we pay, but you’re going to make products that are first and foremost for us, that interest us,” and what interests them is what interests their sponsors. What Patrick Le Lay so cynically said about how much brain time is available for Coca Cola, a public TV station would never say, but it’s the same problem. What does primetime mean? What’s a housewife over or under fifty? It’s all a question of format, which means the films you offer them are or aren’t seen as “primetime”. And coincidentally, films that are a bit interesting are not primetime according to these criteria – which, no matter how they’re presented, are the sponsors’ criteria, or those of commercials. And so today, we have a situation on its last legs, with the best subsidies in Europe, one everyone wants to put into place, but at the same, you have this negative side effect, which is the fact it’s being bankrolled by TV. Auteur films, first films, second films, non-primetime subject matter, non-“bankable” actors… when you add it all up, out of 120 movies, the most marginal ones fall by the wayside, and two thirds don’t really match these criteria. Clearly, for any decision maker from TV, if there were 50 movies a year in France, and these fifty were precisely the ones they’re interested in, they’d be very happy. Obviously, since they’re not all complete idiots, they know that to find these fifty, you have to make a hundred. But a hundred fifty? No, that’d be a waste.

When did we go from TV as a backer to TV as a decider? Did the transition happen at a specific time?
Yes, when stations started creating subsidiary co-production companies, which were also in response to the creation of Canal Plus in the mid 80s. They’re forced to invest, which pisses them off. It was easier for them to go buy films already made, but with Lang’s laws, they had to invest, and suddenly they thought, since we have to invest, we might as well produce. And indeed, all the stations set up a means to produce, which was a way for them to better control the artistic side of movies and get films that suited them better. When TF1 invested in co-production, broadcasting, first broadcasts, second broadcasts, etc., it wasn’t enough for them; so they also created distribution companies and thus controlled the whole line. The so-called independent producer became a simple middle man who was told, “You want to do this film with X? If you want my cash, put Y in instead. And your screenplay needs work: we can’t show that at 8:30 pm…” And there you have it: the turning point. Since they have to spend their money, they spend it the way they want. It’s simple logic. Obviously, it’s all done in a thousand different ways. And yet, the system allowed French cinema to grow and survive for twenty years, but the logic’s come to an end…

Is there less and less space for movies that don’t match TV criteria?
We used to be on the outskirts, then in the ghetto, and now we’re in the gutter. That’s what they’re pushing us towards. I’m nearing the end of my career, and so I hope those who are thirty years younger will find ways of reacting. It’s become crucial. It’ll happen, but how many will die along the way? If nothing happens quickly, then what’s happened in Germany, in Italy or in England might happen to us too: i.e., when the means for production are stifled or paralyzed, a whole generation just packs up and goes. It might seem as though I’m saying everything’s bad in television, but it isn’t. For a while, it worked perfectly, but it doesn’t work anymore today. And there are so many stations, and so much competition between them, that their criteria have become more extreme. It has the potential to lead to more innovation, but they all charge in the same direction. When you have a reality show, there’s another one around the corner, and they’ve got to make French comedies, with the five stars who bring in the crowds. You end up with ten comedies that are nearly identical; three of them make money, but no one ever knows which ones beforehand, and after a while the audience has the odd impression they’re always watching the same thing.

And what about producing without being backed by TV stations?
A movie made without backing from TV – even if it has all the public funding possible and imaginable – can only get about 1 to 1.2 million euros at the very most. Given that the average budget, as indicated by the CNC, is around 3.5 million, it’s difficult. That’s where an artistic solution needs to be found. You can’t make a 2-million euro film with only 1 million euros. You can make a 1.5-million euro film with 1.3 million, or a 2.5-million euro film with 1.8 million, but if you cut the budget by 50%, you’re heading for artistic disaster. So the result is what the Nouvelle Vague did: since they couldn’t pay for a studio, or afford this or that, because certain doors were closed to them, or they wanted Belmondo and not Gérard Philippe, but Belmondo wasn’t known by the masses, he was just a friend…, they took cinema to the streets, left the studios and came up with direct sound recording because dubbing was expensive. They came up with solutions.

Jacques Rivette’s Ne touchez pas la hache was very well received by the critics and made fairly good money at the box office. Was it difficult to finance?
Nowadays, everything’s pigeon-holed. Jacques Rivette can get around 2 million euros. Iosseliani the same: 2 million. Rohmer: 2 million. They can do want they want with it. Whether they film in costume, or in subsidized housing units, no one cares. A Rivette film for Canal Plus is worth 400,000 – they’ll make the sacrifice and take it because, after all, it’s of cultural interest. At Arte, it’s worth 400,000 euros, at France 3, the same price. With the advance on box office receipts, subsidies…, you come up with a total of about 2 million. You can get it whether the total production costs 1.2 million or 3 million. Today, television has divorced the idea of investment from the cost of the film. It all depends on what time slot it can be shown in. The rest is our problem. So we produce films at a loss. Sometimes, little miracles like Lady Chatterley can happen. If the producer hadn’t gone bankrupt, he might be solvent today. That’s why you need to have a catalog, to have other projects on the table, so you can say, “OK, I’m risking 200,000 to 300,000 here, but in four or five years, I can make it up by selling this or that.” But what if there are no other projects, or you’re going it alone, or you’re not able to wait it out? Also, you can do it once or twice, but the third time is a recipe for disaster. And afterwards, they tell me, “French cinema is too intimate” – well, we do what we can.

Do you see new possibilities opening up, economic alternatives, with digital perhaps?
We’re now in a system of globalization, which means we’re no longer in control of the game. The French film industry doesn’t even make such the decision. Who’s going to decide whether we move to digital? Three multinational companies, Sony, some other one, American cinema owners… The day we move completely over to digital, the decision will come from somewhere between Hollywood, New York and Tokyo, or even Beijing or Shanghai, and what will happen? Prices will go down to a fiftieth of what they are now. Or not. Once they’ve made their decision, who’s going to set the prices? They will. So I don’t know.

How do you survive today when you combine art and economics?
“Survival” is the right term. You survive. For how long, I don’t know. And who survives? You need to ask young producers who are starting companies today and who want to defend this type of cinema, why they’re going into it. How do we survive? We survive on our catalogs… But for people starting their companies today… Obviously, you’ve got to open things up internationally, go get money anywhere you can, and fight to show the films in as many countries as possible. You can no longer think only in terms of French production: it’s got to be at least European. And indeed, you need to rely on new technological means of distribution, but today, its economic value is pretty much zero. It represents hope for the future, but has no economic value for the time being. Yes, maybe in five or ten years, but how do you stay the course that long? Clearly, we’re in a pivotal period. I’m convinced that economics and art are always closely linked in cinema; some artistic sectors are more independent from economics because production costs are lower. To paraphrase Malraux – yes, him again –, you mustn’t forget that cinema is both an industry and an art. I don’t know… I know we’re in big shit, but I think, as always, a solution will come along. But I don’t know where it’ll come from or what it’ll be.