DANS LE NOIR DU TEMPS
Can one film define one’s relationship with cinema? I’ll never forget the impact of seeing Andrei Tarkovsky’s Mirror when it screened at the 1980 Wellington Film Festival, the first film festival I ever attended, and the first time a film shook me as no movie had before. Mirror left me stunned. It was like witnessing a miracle. I never imagined that films could speak so profoundly, to touch and awaken something that one didn’t even know was there.
The experience set me on an almost obsessive path of discovery, where I had equally powerful encounters with films by Dreyer (Gertrud and Vampyr), Bresson (Mouchette and Diary of a Country Priest), Jansco (The Round-Up), Antonioni (L’Eclisse), Godard (Vivre sa vie), and Erice (The Spirit of the Beehive). Every year, the Auckland International Film Festival introduced me to more masters; Eustache (Mes petites amoureuses), Pialat (Under Satan’s Sun), Yang (A Brighter Summer’s Day), Kiarostami (A Taste of Cherry), Tarr (Satantango), Dumont (Humanitie), Diaz (Norte, the End of History), Hou (Café Lumiere), Reygadas (Silent Light), and of course so many more.
But is it possible to single out one film that defines my relationship with cinema? I had an unexpected revelation recently when watching Thunderball for the first time since I was 9 or 10 years old, that it wasn’t just James Bond and his license-to-thrill that compelled me to see the film every second day during its school holiday run all those years ago, but the mesmerising combination of sound and image. I realised that it may have been Thunderball, not Mirror, that introduced me to the profoundly intimate and seductive aesthetic power of cinema.
But if I had to point to one film that encapsulates the essential truth of cinema, it wouldn’t be (as those who know me might suppose) some lengthy rain-soaked meditation on the miseries of the human condition, but a relatively modest 10-minute short by Jean-Luc Godard. Dans le noir du temps (In the Darkness of Time, 2002) was cut from the same cloth as Godard’s De L'Origine du XXIe Siecle (2001), a 16-minute film gleaned from Godard’s 265-minute magnum opus, Histoire du cinema (1988-1998). Dans le noir du temps was released as part of an omnibus project, Ten Minutes Older, in which fifteen filmmakers each contributed a ten-minute work exploring the idea that in ten minutes one’s life can change forever.
Dans le noir du temps is essential viewing for those with a serious interest in cinema. First and foremost, it acts as an invaluable key to coming to grips with Jean-Luc Godard, particularly his output since Histoire(s) du cinema. His films from the 60s are, of course, astonishing, but his work in the 70s served to establish the methodology that would inform the impressive body of work that continues to this day, which in many respects is unsurpassed in terms of the breadth and depth of its formal, philosophical, aesthetic, political and personal qualities. Few, if any, of Godard's films since 1980 can be regarded as “easy viewing”. Some are more ‘accessible’ than others, but all require active participation from viewers and usually more than one viewing. These films don’t tell you what to think or feel or even what they are about, because Godard expects you to participate in that process by bringing something of yourself to it.
Dans le noir du temps is a portrait of Godard in some respects, reflecting his passion, anguish, joy, contempt and hope for the medium he has dedicated his life to and the state of our shared humanity. Few films have affected me in quite the way that this one does, although I appreciate that whatever it is that speaks profoundly to me won’t necessarily translate to others, and certainly not in the same way. Which is as it should be. It’s not an easy film to recommend, but if one is open to it, it might tell you something about yourself. If you’re lucky, it might even bring you to your knees.
I’ve embedded a video of the film below. The quality isn’t great, sadly, but it’s sufficient for Godard’s singular genius to shine.