Agnès

Alan Swyer
October 2022

Immediately, Agnès Varda put me on the spot, demanding brusquely in French that I cite three French films that are meaningful to me but largely unknown to Americans.

Louis Malle’s “Le Feu Follet,” I answered in French, drawing the barest nod of approval for mentioning a film whose American title is “The Fire Within”.

“Et?” Agnès continued, with all the warmth of a prosecutor in a murder trial.

Claude Sautet’s “Mado,” I replied, eliciting a a quiet “Oui.” Then I surprised her by asking if I could include a French-languate film not in France.

“Lequel?” she said, wanting to know which one.

“Jonas Qui Aura 25 Ans En l’An 2000,” I responded.

Lo and behold, Agnès smiled as I invoked a film known in the US as “Jonah Who Will Be 25 In The Year 2,000″.

“J’adore ce film!” she said, suddenly beaming. “I love it!”

That I, as a young screenwriter, was talking with the only female member of the New Wave in her rented apartment in Venice, California owed to a call from my agent, who wanted to confirm that my French was fluent.

Maggie, my agent, then informed me that Agnès, who some years before had made a film in California called “Lions Love,” was searching for an American to help her develop a new screenplay in English.

Going back and forth between French and English, Agnès started telling me about the impetus for the project, which I learned was inspired by a dream she’d had some months before in Paris. Then, after insisting that the two of us use the informal “tu” rather than the formal “vous” in addressing each other, she began describing the color scheme she had in mind for the film, followed by some of the Southern California locations she hoped to use. Next came a lengthy discussion of the themes, after which she pointed a finger at me. “Qu’est-ce que tu en pense?” she asked. “What do you think?”

“Everything sounds interesting,” I replied. “Only, what’s the story? And who are the characters?”

“Tomorrow we meet for lunch,” Agnès asserted. “And we talk more.”

The next day, over crepes at an Ocean Front Walk cafe, while Agnès went on about art, philosophy, and the human condition, occasionally my eyes drifted toward the activity on the beach in front of us.

Then suddenly Agnès again pointed a figure toward me, demanding to know which films from the Nouvelle Vague meant the most to me. But not, she added, those made by both her and her husband Jacques Demy, two of whose – “Lola” and “La Baie Des Anges” – I particularly liked.

Truffaut’s “400 Blows”, was the first one I mentioned, followed by Godard’s “Breathless” and “Pierrot Le Fou”, plus Resnais’s “La Guerre Est Finie”. But when I added Rohmer’s “La Collectioneuse”, Agnès beamed. “Moi, aussi!” she exclaimed. “Me, too!”

When she asked if I was familiar with the area where the Rohmer film was shot, it pleased her to learn that I’d spent time outside of Saint-Tropez in the village of Ramatuelle. “Comment ca?” she inquired. And how was it that a guy with a New Jersey accent wound up speaking French.

I explained that after two years of college, knowing not a soul, I decided to move to Paris. Fortuitously, I was able to wangle a job writing the Paris section of a travel guide for the student market called Where The Fun Is, as well as a ticket on the S.S. France. It was on the ship that I met my French girlfriend, who was returning from doing summer stock in New England. Marie-Christine and her family, I explained, had a vacation home in Ramatuelle. Plus, they were the ones who insisted that I speak only French. While that pleased

Agnès, what amused her even was that, having enrolled at the Sorbonne to keep from being drafted, and living in a place without a shower, I wound up on the Paris University boxing team. She immediately understood why, when it came to sparring, knowing French was essential to keep from getting hurt.

“Agnès thinks the world of you,” Maggie informed me gleefully later that afternoon.

“And I her.”

So it’s working?”

“Yes and no.”

“But –”

“You told me she wants a collaborator,” I said.

“Doesn’t she?”

“What she wants is someone to be a combination sounding board, stenographer, and translator.”

“And her story?” she asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“You don’t know?”

“Nor, I’m realizing, does she.”

I heard Maggie gulp. “So what do I tell her?”

“She and I are having lunch again tomorrow,” I stated. “I’ll talk to her.”

When Agnès and I met again at the cafe on Ocean Front Walk, after the customary kiss on both cheeks known as La Bise, she immediately started discussing the kind of camera movements she was envisioning.

To her surprise, I held up my hand to interrupt.

“Il faut que je te dise quelque chose,” I said before repeating myself in English. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

As gently as possible, I informed her that while I was flattered for the opportunity to be involved with a filmmaker of her stature, there was a project of my own that was calling, begging, even screaming for my attention.

“Dis-moi exactement ce que tu veux dire,” Agnès responded. “Tell me exactly what you’re saying.”

“I’d rather be friends than work together.”

A moment of strained silence ensued, during which I feared that Agnès might explode. Explode she then did, but in laughter rather than anger. “D’accord,” Agnès said. “Okay.” She extended a hand, and we shook. “Instead of sitting and waiting,” she continued, “I think I will focus more on the documentary I have been shooting. And we will be friends.”

Being a friend of Agnès, I quickly learned, meant belonging to a privileged group. Periodically it involved being summoned to lunch, often with a pleasant surprise. Sometimes it an actor or director visiting from France, Other times it was her husband, Jacques Demy when he was in town with their young son Mathieu, who on one occasion wore a Spiderman costume to a Japanese restaurant.

It also meant being included at parties Agnès hosted for French film community, as she did on one occasion when Isabelle Huppert was in town.

An even more endearing side of my new French friend was revealed when she learned that my wife was pregnant. Often that meant checking in as Ronni moved into her second trimester, then her third, while at other times it was to offer encouragement and advise.

During each call, I made a point of asking her about the documentary she was making.

“Ca pousse,” invariably she responded. “It’s growing.”

A potentially difficult moment arrived when a female studio executive who, for purposes of discretion will go unnamed, called to ask a favor. Having learned of my friendship with Agnès, she wanted my help in getting her to be honored by a group of women in the film world.

“How much do you know about Agnès?” I asked.

“I know that she’s a wonderful director and role model.”

“But are you aware she’s very much her own person?”

“Meaning?”

“She can be abrupt, prickly, even tough.”

“Tough is good,” I was told. “I’m counting on you.”

Agnès agreed to attend under one condition, that I accompany her.

A month later, I found myself the only non-female at the luncheon. After Agnès and I were seated at the main table, a number of announcements were made while appetizers were served. Then the executive who called me stepped to the microphone. “It’s a very special pleasure for me to present our Woman Of The Year Award to a pioneering woman director whose feature films and documentaries have been, and continue to be, not merely artistic milestones, but also an inspiration to women – and especially women filmmakers – across the globe.”

As the executive continued, I could feel Agnès tensing.

Then, with a smile, the executive summoned the honoree. “Please join me,” she said to the attendees, “in welcoming an extraordinary woman director, Agnès Varda.”

Sensing what was coming, I watched Agnès to much applause, stride toward the microphone. There she gazed at the faces of those seated at multiple tables around the room.

“I am not a woman director,” she then stated forcefully, drawing gasps. “I am a woman, and I am a director. I do not make films about women. I make them about people. I do not make films for women. I make them for everyone. Above all, I do not network. Why? Because I prefer to spend my time making films, not talking about deals.”

Though I’d tried to warn her, the executive who’d reached out to me seemed to be blaming not just me, but even my mother and father for having me.

The question of what would arrive first, the completion of Agnès’ new documentary or the birth, was answered when Agnès called to invite us to a “friends” screening of her film.

Unfortunately, we had to demur because it was in conflict with one of our last childbirth classes.

Not to worry, said Agnès.  Another screening would be scheduled soon.

When Agnès called with a second opportunity, I assured her that we would attend. That, however, went awry when Ronni announced on that evening that she was not feeling well..

Chagrined, I apologized to Agnès, who promised she would call once another screening was scheduled.

The following week, that call came. Before giving me the details, Agnès proudly announced that she had learned enough about baseball to say, “Three strikes, you’re out.”

“I promise we will be there,” I said.

“Si non – if not,” Agnès warned me, “without an extremely good reason, our friendship is over.”

As luck would have it, Ronni and I missed that screening. When Agnès called, she stated bluntly, “Tu as quinze secondes,” meaning that I had fifteen seconds to explain myself.

“Il s’appelle Jonas,” I answered. “His name is Jonas.”

Delighted, Agnès promptly responded, “Qui aura 19 ans en l’an 2,000.”

Upon returning home from the hospital with our newborn son, waiting for us at our front door were gifts from Agnès: a bouquet of flowers and a plush giraffe.

What neither Agnès nor I knew at that moment was that years later I, too, would be making documentaries as well as scripted films.

Even more surprisingly, given that her documentary “Mur Murs (Wall Walls)” focused on the murals of Los Angeles, was that my son Jonas, who turned 19 in the year 2,000, would grow up to be the preeminent muralist of his generation.

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Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel ‘The Beard’ was recently published by Harvard Square Editions.