Haus der Kulturen der Welt

Godard–Said
Late Style and Covert Associations

James Quandt is the Senior Programmer of TIFF Cinematheque and a film critic. He is, among others, the editor of the broadly received monograph on Robert Bresson (Robert Bresson, revised edition Indiana University Press, 2012). Several of his texts engage with Edward Said’s notion of “Late Style.”

James Quandt

“When I think of something, in fact, I’m really thinking of something else,” the character called Edgar says at the midpoint, and again at the very end, of Jean-Luc Godard’s In Praise of Love / Éloge de l’amour (2001). Whenever Edward Said describes Theodor Adorno in his posthumous book On Late Style: Music and Literature Against the Grain (2006), I think of another figure altogether: Godard. Much of what Said says about Adorno applies to Godard: his thorny intransigence, studious unlikability, his loathing of the Zeitgeist, and his determination to make “things hard for everyone” (Said 2006, p. 22). Said writes: “Adorno is very much a late figure because so much of what he does militated ferociously against his own time” (p. 22). So it is with Godard. Adorno’s “late style” Said characterizes as “that of an aging but mentally agile European man of culture who is absolutely not given to ascetic serenity or mellow maturity” (p. 22). In the late trilogy of films by Godard, which I think constitutes the most important body of cinema of the past decade, the director’s work has become increasingly dense, difficult, aphoristic, abstruse, and valedictory, the very opposite of serene or mellow. The “war trilogy” certainly embodies Said’s contention that late style “undermine[s] our pleasure, actively eluding any attempt at easy understanding” (p. 104). These three beautiful, sometimes impenetrable films prove Adorno’s assertion, which is central to Said’s exploration of late style, that “In the history of art, late works are the catastrophes” (p. 12). Godard “takes” us on a voyage into catastrophe.

The fiftieth anniversary of the nouvelle vague, in 2009, proved to be both milestone and death knell. Eric Rohmer and Claude Chabrol subsequently died, Jacques Rivette made his final film, and Jean-Luc Godard announced what he said was his ultimate project, Film Socialisme (2010). (Of course, like Cher on her never-ending farewell tour, Godard cannot countenance retirement, and made a new feature in 2013, Adieu au langage, in 3-D no less.) In their transformation over half a century from young and seditious cineastes maudits to grey eminences, what became of the nouvelle vague’s maverick nature, of the innovations and outrage that impelled its origin? The immense disillusionment, which set in for Godard during the time between the birth of the nouvelle vague and its fiftieth anniversary, is indicated in the trajectory from the sunny Paris boulevards in the joyous Breathless (1960) to the city’s melancholy, nocturnal monuments in the morose In Praise of Love, and from the (ironically) Edenic shores of the Côte d’Azur in Pierrot le fou (1965) to the toxically-coloured coast of Brittany in the second half of In Praise of Love. Measured by the rigorous standards of Adorno and Said, the late style of Godard’s colleagues—Chabrol, Rivette, Rohmer—often reveals itself not as the intransigent, oppositional, and exiled approach the two theorists proffer as their ideal of contrarian lateness, but a reiteration of often conservative vision. The last films of Rivette, Chabrol, and Rohmer all deal with the granting of clemency and the forging of community. Facing mortality, only Godard remains “not reconciled,” his works rife with contradiction and discontinuity, a conscious “going against,” as Said characterizes the nature of lateness-as-rejection. We can certainly say of Godard what Said says of Adorno, that he is “lateness itself, hell-bent on remaining untimely and contrary in the Nietzschean sense” (p. 92).

“The cesuras,” Adorno writes, “the sudden discontinuities that more than anything else characterize the very late Beethoven, are those moments of breaking away; the work is silent at the instant when it is left behind, and turns its emptiness outward” (p. 11). In this Adorno seems to anticipate Godard, who, near the end of Film Socialisme (2010) appears to echo him: “Even more significant than the profound structures of life,” intones the film’s narrator, “are the points where they break, their brusque or long deterioration.” Both Adorno and Godard prize the irregular and estranged. If one finds in the last films of Rohmer, Chabrol, and Rivette recapitulation and humility, a form of the “return and repose” Said (p. 29) discovers in Richard Strauss’s retrospective late operas, Godard offers no such ease. Maker of “catastrophes,” he closely resembles both Adorno’s lamenting Beethoven, “bristling, difficult, and unyielding” (p. 12) in Said’s appraisal, and, strangely, he also resembles Ibsen “whose final works,” Said says:

[…] tear apart the career and the artist’s craft and reopen the questions of meaning, success, and progress that the artist’s late period is supposed to move beyond. Far from resolution, then, Ibsen’s last plays suggest an angry and disturbed artist for whom the medium of drama provides an occasion to stir up more anxiety, tamper irrevocably with the possibility of closure, and leave the audience more perplexed and unsettled than before. (p. 7)

This exactly describes late Godard. Isolated in the small town of Rolle, Switzerland, Godard remains a “lamenting personality,” the term Said uses to characterize Adorno’s depiction of Beethoven in his late string quartets—music much loved and frequently used by Godard—a director increasingly prone to requiems and memorials, to the elegiac mode, as the very title of the film that launched his late period, In Praise of Love, suggests. A threnody for a world of art, politics, and philosophy that has been colonized and subdued by international capital, and a screed against a state in which resistance is impossible and everything is for sale, even history and the individual gaze, In Praise of Love summons a sense of suicidal futility which accords with Godard’s long-held feeling of abandonment and mortality. This is apparent when the character Paul Godard is left for dead after a traffic accident at the end of Sauve qui peut (la vie) (1980), and in the photograph of Godard as a child, “already in mourning for myself,” in his autobiographical film JLG/JLG: Self-Portrait in December (1994), its wintry title invoking le fin des choses, the end of things, in the final month of the year. Berthe, the despairing heroine of In Praise of Love, cannot escape memory—either historical memory represented by the French Resistance and the Holocaust, or personal memory (her role in a corrupt Hollywood deal). “The image,” she tells us, “the only thing capable of denying nothingness, is also the gaze of nothingness on us.” That “gaze of nothingness” falls on everything in late Godard—it is the regard of impending death. It is consistent with Godard’s late style that we hear the phrase “the end” in the opening minute of In Praise of Love. In our beginning is our end.

Rupture and interruption, what Adorno called “tears and fissures” (p. 10), characterized Godard’s fragmenting aesthetic from early on, but his late films in fact manifest a growing concern with continuity and structure. Each of these three films—In Praise of Love; Our Music / Notre musique (2004); Film Socialisme—is organized either as a diptych or a triptych, and taken together form a trio, an updating of Roberto Rossellini’s war trilogy perhaps, given that all three deal with the actuality or aftermath of battle (respectively, World War II, the Bosnian war, World War II again, plus the Palestinian–Israeli conflict). Each of the three films can also be ascribed a governing art: painting in In Praise of Love, literature in Our Music, and photography in Socialisme. The neatness of this schema suggests a late mania for order, especially after the torrential montage of Godard’s greatest opus, the Histoire(s) du cinema (1988), but within these regulating forms the director’s irrepressible sensibility remains unconstrained: the legendary magpie and collagist lives supremely in every teeming frame and disorienting edit.

For the first half of In Praise of Love Godard returned to shoot in Paris for the first time since the mid-1960s. The story of Edgar, who is struggling to produce a work, a film, play, novel, or opera, In Praise of Love splits itself between two time periods set in reverse order, two connected stories, and two contrasting visual approaches. Following the innovative temporal-colorist structure of Bonjour Tristesse (1958), the Otto Preminger film that convinced Godard to star Jean Seberg in Breathless and thus started his own career, In Praise of Love inverts cinema’s traditional presentation of the past in black and white, the present in colour. “I wanted to find a way of intensifying the past,” Godard said (Halberstadt 2001). It also overturns the director’s usual romantic representation of city and nature.

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In Praise of Love / Éloge de l’amour (2001), excerpt.

Its monuments and fountains shot like postcard icons in lustrous, nitrate-looking black and white, Paris appears the capital of melancholy, august and glorious, what Godard himself called “timeless.” (Note Godard’s own presence, sitting on a bench and reading a book.) Nature, long a source of solace in Godard’s late “transcendental” films, has rarely looked as noxious as it does in the film’s colour-manipulated digital second half, which renders Brittany landscapes in a conflagration of sulphurous oranges, bilious blues, and pestilential yellows. Godard famously labeled film and video Cain and Abel in Sauve qui peut (la vie) and one is tempted to assume he is playing out those biblical implications in In Praise of Love. In his requiem for a lost culture (represented in the film by paintings stolen from Jews during the war and by the films of Robert Bresson) and for a time of political heroism no longer possible (the French Resistance), Godard assigns an elegiac beauty to Paris in 35 mm. images, lambent and substantial, and an aura of contamination to the seaside, shot in a hot, lava-like palette, like a Jawlensky painting gone ghastly, its dematerializing effect associated with commerce, historical amnesia, cultural imperialism. “History keeps repeating—it’s one long stutter,” someone says in Godard’s Détective (1985), and much the same can be said of Godard’s cinema. The Hollywood deal-making in the second part of In Praise of Love looks back to that of his early film starring Brigitte Bardot and Fritz Lang, Contempt (1963); in both films, European history and culture are sold, plundered, and falsified by an American movie producer.

The repeated incantation of the phrase “maybe nothing was said” in the final moments of In Praise of Love implies aesthetic impasse, a stalemate belied by the second film in Godard’s war trilogy, Our Music. Structured in three Dantean chapters or “kingdoms,” labeled “Hell,” “Purgatory,” and “Paradise,” Our Music is more lament than Divine Comedy. “More than ever, we’re faced with the void,” a French philosopher informs us, and the film’s first chapter, “Hell,” spills us into an abyss of ceaseless war and genocide. Just as the discussion of Rwandan massacres in Godard’s 1964 Bande à part half a century ago rattles audiences now with the reminder that recent horrors often have a long, hidden history, “Hell” treats the slaughter of the last 100 years as one sustained sanguinary surge toward present calamities. With a blunt sense of equivalence, Godard posits various forms of mass extermination as expressions of the same murderous urge—to defile, dominate, or butcher the Other, be he Jew, Muslim, Serb, Confederate soldier, or American Indian. Over an infernal flood of found footage, both documentary and fiction, of unceasing carnage, the film goes almost speechless. Minimal text, four sentences in all, includes a prayer for forgiveness (obviated by the imagery) and the first statement of a key theme in the film: survival. “And so, after the Flood,” the narrator states, “there appeared on Earth men equipped for extermination [….] It’s amazing that anyone survived.”

The second, longest, and most textually dense chapter, “Purgatory,” is set in Sarajevo at a writers’ congress which Godard himself attends, to speak on “the text and the image” (old enemies in his view) and act as the film’s interlocutor, both grizzled witness to horror and inveterate believer in poetry as a response, perhaps the only response, to barbarity. Among the figures he encounters or interviews is the Spanish novelist Juan Goytisolo, whose preoccupations with language and lies, with “a climate of fanatic hysteria and persecution” (Goytisolo 2000) that maims culture and slays people, reflect Godard’s own concerns. And, most apropos to this setting, the great Palestinian poet, the late Mahmoud Darwish, whose experience of exile and reflections on the victim as artist (a reversal of Godard’s usual emphasis of artist as victim) allow Godard to posit one of his provocative dichotomies: Israel is fiction, Palestine is documentary.

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Our Music / Notre musique (2004), excerpt.

In this sequence, which lies at the actual and metaphoric center of the film, at its crux, the Israeli reporter Judith opens a dialog with Darwish, she speaking in Hebrew—she has hitherto spoken in French—he in Arabic. As the sequence opens, Darwish is literally and metaphorically exiled from the image, shut out entirely, and then shown only deep in shadow. Darwish, who would also come to write a commemorative poem following Edward Said’s death, here claims that “There’s more inspiration and humanity in defeat than in victory,” and, repeating Godard’s contention: “The Truth has two faces.” Indeed, Our Music is a film of many references to dualities, many recto–verso dichotomies: the American North and South locked in civil war, the suffering Jew and Muslim counterposed and compared, and the two young Jewish women, Judith and Olga, one an idealist searching for the possibility of rapprochement, symbolized in the film by the reconstruction of the Mostar Bridge, the other a would-be suicide bomber. Godard’s treatment of the two women, who look considerably alike, like a Bach canon, construes Olga and Judith as variations of each other, as one entity divided into two, mirroring, counterpointing, diverging, but always suggesting the possibilities in the other, for contemplation or action, reconciliation or suicide. “It is necessary both to restore the past and make possible the future,” we are told, “to wed suffering to guilt.”

Godard again proves himself an exemplar of Said’s unyielding contrarian in his version of “Paradise.” The final chapter of Godard’s Divine Comedy thwarts the Elysian imagery of Olga’s heaven—deep forest, wending river, sunshine—with a sour joke: the pearly gates of paradise are a running chain-link fence that seems to protect some sort of Club Med and is guarded by US Marines, who violently stamp the wrists of all who enter, which recalls the repeated slow-motion image of Old Glory, the American flag, flying on an ominous limousine in the midst of the montage of slaughter in the “Hell” chapter that opens the film. The references to Iraq and Guantanamo Bay are inescapable.

Godard’s equation of several different kinds of mass extermination, including that of Native North Americans, can be troubling: the juxtaposition of an image of a Holocaust victim (bluntly labeled “juif”) and a Bosnian Muslim (“musulman,” likewise) seems designed to incite, and it’s hard to countenance Godard’s suggestion that every war is essentially the same conflict, be it Vietnam, World War II, or “cowboys and Indians.” Though an image of a body sprawled in the Sarajevo market where several people were massacred acts as a visual motif in the second section—“Violence leaves a deep scar,” Godard suggests, “A trace of the oblivion always remains”—the director cannot suppress his natural propensity for wresting beauty from the ruins. A nocturnal cortège of traffic and stately shuttle of trams, scored with a Sibelius allegretto, run the risk of turning the war-ravaged city picturesque, and Godard’s strobing montage of arrows, guns, fighter jets, tanks, and bombs may have an effect opposite to that intended: an aesthetizing of the machinery of war. But, as always with the mournful Godard, the images also recall a lost utopia, evoked in Sarajevo’s broken stones, torched library, and bombed-out bridge.

Shot by the director and three other cinematographers, Godard’s latest feature, Film Socialisme, employs every possible register of digital imaging, from garishly raw cell phone footage, a blizzard of disintegrating pixels accompanied by pulverized sound, to immaculate High Definition, which allows miracles of tender, single-source natural lighting in interiors, and precise, saturated compositions outdoors. Coming so far for beauty, Godard indulges in outrageously lovely images—the inky glitter of moonlit sea; a woman standing against a white wall, haloed by the ghostly spokes of a windmill’s shadow, in a locked shot that lasts almost three minutes; a molten close-up of the wheels and gears of an ancient watch—and riotous, hot Pop or Fauvist color effects. In the Godardian struggle between word and image, pictures inevitably win out, no matter how dismal their delivery system.

Like Our Music, Film Socialisme is structured in three parts: “Things Like That,” set on a cruise ship on the Mediterranean; “Quo Vadis Europa,” at a family-owned gas station in the south of France; and finally “Humanities,” in a transglobal assortment of cities. The “obsessive patterning,” “the symmetries and repetitions” (p. 63) that Edward Said finds in Mozart’s operas are also found in the musical structure of the three movements of Film Socialisme. Godard circulates objects, phrases, and images throughout the three parts, pairing characters, reiterating items and settings, and revisiting incidents (for example, the taking of the first photograph of Palestine in 1839). Themes return time and again as motifs: the exploitation and abandonment of Africa and the end of poor, unhappy Europe; cameras, primitive to digital, daguerreotype to camcorder, and the undependable images they produce; gold manifested in many ways, as name, watch, loot, silence, necklace; the futility of political action; the wisdom of children and animals, neither of whom have any rights. (I should note here that in a lapse from the rigors of late style, Film Socialisme offers an enchanting menagerie, from the pre-credit image of a pair of scarlet parrots, to the unkempt llama and Balthazar-like donkey tethered at the gas station, a burro carrying a television on its back somewhere in the Middle East, and, most memorably, two YouTube cats performing a karaoke.)

There has always been a streak of the puritanical in Godard, and he makes easy targets of the cruise ship’s vacationers; retirees on holiday, all real-life “extras” in the film, who prefer dancercising, gambling, swimming, boozing, buffet stuffing, anything to a lecture on Husserl and ancient geometry by French philosopher Alain Badiou that Godard inserted into their activity schedule and which no one attended. (Godard exaggerates the hall’s vast emptiness with a high angle shot.) The boat is both ship of fools and the last ark, its pleasure-seekers heading to hell even as they take communion from a priest in the luridly lit casino. In an eerie bit of grim coincidence, Godard’s chosen ship was none other than the doomed Costa Concordia, from which bodies were extricated in 2012.

Godard’s governing concern with the inadequacy of language and the struggle to show the invisible are afforded new force both by the film’s often untranslated polyglot, and by the avoidance of wind socks on microphones in Part I, so that unshielded seaward gusts toss already arcane phrases into the blustery beyond,

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Film Socialisme (2010), excerpt.

and by the film’s infamous original subtitles, presented in what Godard dubbed “Navajo English” when the film was first presented at the Cannes Film Festival. Having often inveighed against translation, insisting that anyone can learn French as he did English by watching Sam Fuller movies, the director added another impediment for the Anglophone with subtitles that reduce copious and often gnomic French and German dialog into perversely truncated phrases and peculiar neologisms, so fascinating in their linguistic condensation that they draw attention away from the film’s images, as we see here. Language, innately unreliable for Godard, turns into both fixation and refusal in Film Socialisme: “Access Denied” a text reads half an hour into the film, echoed by the film’s final “No Comment,” repeated twice for good measure.

In a work whose credits catalog dozens of sources for the film’s music, texts, and video clips, the welter can overwhelm. “What lies ahead is an impossible history,” we are warned early on, and Film Socialisme indeed bears out Godard’s admission to the German media that at least three viewings are required in order to understand his films of recent years. In the case of Film Socialisme, try twelve viewings. I have seen it perhaps ten times, and still struggle with its density, especially in Part III. Every image and phrase in the film recalls another—for instance, a sudden, almost subliminal detail from Grünewald’s painting the Mocking of Christ (1503–5) prepares for a discussion of German Renaissance painting ten minutes later. The rhetorical dualities of Our Music return, sometimes oppositional—myth and history, photography and painting—sometimes dialectical: a girl’s voice chanting the Talmud is followed by one chanting the Koran, a Hebrew text in red is laid over an Arabic one in white, etc. The latter express the kind of reconciliation Judith searches for in Our Music, whose possibility, Godard has suggested, is imbedded in the sequence, lifted from compatriot filmmaker Agnès Varda, of trapeze artists practicing by the sea. “If the Israelis and Palestinians started a circus and performed a trapeze show together,” Godard has said, “things would be different in the Middle East” (Kaganski and Lalanne 2010). At this point, I can’t help but think of the similar impulse behind the West-Eastern Divan Orchestra started and supported by Said and Daniel Barenboim.

“We’re facing a kind of zero,” someone says at the beginning of Film Socialisme, a declaration that returns transmogrified twelve minutes later: “So, we’re back to zero, my friend.” The desire to return to zero has long been Godard’s obsession, and in the end he succeeded, turning emptiness outwards, as Adorno advised. “I have once again encountered nothingness and it is much more immense than one tends to believe,” a statement repeated twice in Film Socialisme’s first half hour, captures the desolate tone of the artist who late in the day still finds the hélas in Hellas, the roots of our devastation in antiquity. “Nonharmonious, nonserene” in his inconsolable lateness, his belatedness, as Adorno and Said might characterize Godard; the French master seems to end his film, and his trilogy, on a hopeful note. The last voice we hear is Ludovic’s, returning from the film’s Part I, crying out four times Alissa! Alissa is a Hebrew name that means joy or great happiness, but Godard’s deeply pessimistic film instead ends on a blunt repetition from the film’s Part II: Lucien’s “No Comment.” Some time ago, Godard expressed cautious optimism: “You should take comfort in these lines from Cioran: ‘We are all jokers: we will survive our problems’,” a line he quotes near the very end of In Praise of Love. The catastrophe of Film Socialisme warns us otherwise.

At the outset, I suggested an affinity between the Adorno described by Said and Godard. I will now end by posing a second set of affinities or what I call “hidden associations” between the art and thought of Said and Godard. Deeply hidden as to seem subterranean, for instance, Godard shares a birthday, December 3, with that of Said’s frequent subject, Joseph Conrad. Just as Said wrote that he doubted that the Canadian pianist Glenn Gould “had read Adorno or ever heard of him, but the coincidence between their views is quite striking” (p. 126), I wonder how much the cinephilic Said appreciated late Godard. Many of Godard’s erstwhile champions, such as Susan Sontag and Pauline Kael, divested themselves of his work as he progressed into his late style, and Said’s cinephile friend Phillip Lopate recently told me that Said never mentioned Godard, early or late, in all their discussions of film. Other than Godard’s exemplifying Said’s description of late style in almost every way, I merely cite Godard and Said’s shared passion for the late string quartets of Beethoven and for the music of Mozart—Godard’s cinema from his first film, Breathless, to the late one, appropriately called For Ever Mozart (1996), relies heavily on the composer. Both Said and Godard are also included in Mariani and Wallis's volume The Imperialism of Representation, The Representation of Imperialism (1985). Throughout their respective work, Godard and Said share a mutual concern with linguistic and cultural dislocation and imperialism—1948, the Nakba (Catastrophe), and exile; the effect of capitalism on historical memory; the dissolution of binary categories; and the representation of the Other.

But a curious thing also binds them together: an obsession with the Hollywood actress Cyd Charisse, who we see here in Godard’s invocation of her in his magnum opus, Histoire(s) du cinema. In his Memoirs, Said recounts his boyhood fixation on Charisse, who for Said and his little friends watching Hollywood films in a Cairo cinema was the very embodiment of sex.

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Histoire(s) du cinéma: Toutes les histoires (1988), excerpt.

Many decades later, Said finally met his fantasy at a dinner in New York, a well-preserved Cyd Charisse (see Lopate 1999). At the end of the evening, he falteringly bestowed upon her a copy of his book Orientalism, wrapped in a brown paper bag but then demurred, advising her she didn’t have to read it, at which point Charisse turned to her friend Jean Stein and hissed, “What does he think I am, illiterate?” before driving off into the night. As Godard and Adorno both knew, illusions founder on reality. Catastrophe always lies ahead.



This essay is derived from James Quandt’s article, “Coming of Age: Late Style and the French New Wave” (2011).

References

Books and articles

Goytisolo, J. (2000) The Garden of Secrets. London: Serpent’s Tale, as quoted by Douglas Messerli (2001) Truth Telling in a World of Lies. The Los Angeles Times Book Review, April. [Online]. Available from: <http://writing.upenn.edu/pepc/authors/messerli/essays/messerli_goytisolo.html> [Accessed February 9, 2013].

Halberstadt, M. (2001) Eloge de L’amour: Interview with Jean Luc Godard. [Online]. Available from: <http://www.netribution.co.uk/features/interviews/2001/godard/1.html> [Accessed January 30, 2013].

Kaganski, S. and Lalanne, J.-M. (2010) Death and Taxes (and Football): Serge Kaganski and Jean-Marc Lalanne converse with Jean-Luc Godard. [Online]. Available from:
<http://filmlinccom.siteprotect.net/archive/nyff/2010/film-comment-interview-jean-luc-godard-talks-about-film-socialisme/index.html> [Accessed January 30, 2013].

Lopate, P. (1999) Interview with Edward Said. Bomb Magazine 69, Fall. [Online]. Available from: <http://bombsite.com/issues/69/articles/2269> [Accessed January 30, 2013].

Mariani, P. and Wallis, B. (eds.) (1985) The Imperialism of Representation, The Representation of Imperialism. Wedge No. 7/8 (Winter Spring 1985). New York: Wedge Press, Inc.

Quandt, J. (2011) Coming of Age: Late Style and the French New Wave. Artforum International, 49(6), 202–09.

Said, E. W. (2007) On Late Style: Music and Literature Against the Grain. London: Bloomsbury.

Films and videos

Adieu au langage (2013) Dir.: J.-L. Godard, Switzerland.

Bande à part (1964) Dir.: J.-L. Godard, France, 95 min.

Bonjour Tristesse (1958) Dir.: O. Preminger, USA, 94 min.

Breathless / À bout de soufflé (1960) Dir.: J.-L. Godard, France, 90 min.

Contempt / Le mépris (1963) Dir.: J.-L. Godard, France / Italy, 103 min.

Détective (1985) Dir.: J.-L. Godard, dir. France / Switzerland, 95 min.

Film Socialisme (2010) Dir.: J.-L. Godard, Switzerland / France, 102 min.

For Ever Mozart (1996) Dir.: J.-L. Godard, France / Switzerland, 84 min.

Histoire(s) du cinema: Toutes les histoires (1988) Dir.: J.-L. Godard, France, 51 min.

In Praise of Love / Éloge de l’amour (2001) Dir.: J.-L. Godard, Switzerland / France, 97 min.

JLG/JLG: Self-Portrait in December / JLG/JLG – autoportrait de décembre (1994) Dir.: J.-L. Godard, France, 62 min.

Our Music / Notre musique (2004) Dir.: J.-L. Godard, Switzerland / France, 80 min.

Pierrot le fou (1965) Dir.: J.-L. Godard, France / Italy, 110 min.

Sauve qui peut (la vie) (1980) Dir.: J.-L. Godard, France / Austria / West Germany / Switzerland, 87 min.