The anarchist plots. The anarchist broods. The anarchist lurks in a basement, scribbling out pamphlets and making heinous plans. Ashen-skinned and angry, he shows his teeth only to grimace. The anarchist avoids all joy. He has little sense of romance, even of his own. And the anarchist certainly doesn’t have a sense of humor.
The son of a Catalan anarchist who was murdered in a French prison in 1917, the great director Jean Vigo certainly had some anarchist in his blood. But for Vigo, the familiar connotations of the word are all wrong. The few movies he left behind are filled with an almost palpable joy, and a sense of fun that is childlike in its imaginative freedom. Charmingly home-made, jury-rigged with low-fidelity special effects, overflowing with children and rabid cats and oceans of water, Vigo’s films feed off the ecstatic, uncontrollable elements they also seek to harness. Flowing with a weird, jazzy jangle they possess an improvisational quality, mixing the faked with the real, the orchestrated with the accidental, the profane and the divine. A pile of children at war with their pillows; the feathers flutter and swirl like loose clouds, the bodies flying through them like mad angels; the camera lingers on one who bends back and leaps, the film slowing as its subject speeds, cartwheeling up into chair his friends hold aloft for him. Onto a swirling chaos, a tumble of feathers like a screen of smoke, the eccentric vision is imposed. It happens again in L’Atalante, when the visions of a lost lover are seen in the bubbles of air that burst out of a drowning man’s mouth.
Both sequences wordlessly achieve a kind of ecstatic force, an emotional charge that shoots right to the heart. Long after specific plot points fade in memory, moments like these remain remarkably fresh. His first narrative feature, Zero For Conduct, is in fact a collection of such instances. Oddly plotless for a movie about a plot, Zero for Conduct has no hero and only a coterie of caricatures for villains, a midget headmaster and his greasy minions; uncentered, Vigo’s camera struggles to keep the children in frame and contain all their energy. Propelled by its rambunctious subjects the film has almost no time for reflection. It is not about how children look at themselves, but how they look out at the world, the imaginative will and sense of possibility they bring to it. Appropriately, it often plays like a cartoon. The opening sequence, shot and edited in a way that lends the action the texture of stop-motion, establishes the tone: When later a doodle of a teacher suddenly leaps off the note-pad page, fully animated, it seems somehow logical.
While Zero for Conduct is held together by kinetic energy alone, L’Atalante is constructed through somewhat more conventional methods. The movie feels less personal than Zero For Conduct, less eccentric; it has something resembling a plot and characters, and so resembles other movies, while Zero for Conduct stands above all convention. In that movie Vigo tries to hang a frame on a spiraling chaos; L’Atalante, by contrast, has a calmness to it, gracefully gliding forward like the barge it follows, giving Vigo time to explore the inner worlds of its passengers. A couple marries; she leaves home for the first time, thrilled to see Paris; she’s seduced by the world at large; he grows jealous; at the very moment she leaves he abandons her. The canal boat they share seems to take on new shapes, new dimensions, as the lovers’ hearts change; the camera finds ever sharper and steeper angles, isolating its subjects at the margins of its frame, articulating the couple’s alienation. By the film’s end the small rickety craft we embarked on seems as big as an ocean liner.
It is that kind of grand romantic vessel the hero dives from, into the water where his lost wife told him he might glimpse his true love. Vigo takes us down below the surface, showing us our hero as he writhes in the depths, drowning for the sake of the image. Like the drowning man, we are afloat, untethered to time; as in a dream, an instant is extended infinitely. Soon after, we see the man in bed, having been rescued from the water; sleeplessly he tosses and turns, twisting in search as he did in the water. Vigo cuts to matching shots of his wife, twisting and turning in the same way, aglow with the same shadow-dappled light as her lost husband. How many restless nights are passing we do not know: a lifetime of longing is compressed into singularly tense instant. In these penultimate frames Vigo toys with time in a way only possible in movies, teasing and sculpting it into something abstract and expressive. For his final trick Vigo mastered time and died.
To watch Vigo’s work is to watch an artist mature. It is terribly sad he only made a handful of movies; it is a rare pleasure though to see a genius in stasis, frozen in bloom, coming to grips with all he controls.