Le sang d'un Poet (1930)

CAST
Statue Lee Miller
Poet Enrique Rivero
Louis XV Friend Jean Desbordes
Black Angel Féral Benga

CREDITS
Director Jean Cocteau
Settings, montage, and commentary by Jean Cocteau
Music Georges Auric
Technical director Michael J. Arnaud
Cinematography Georges Perinal
Sound Henri Labrély
Sound effects R.C.A. Photophone
Set decoration Jean d'Eaubonne
Orchestra conducted by Edouard Flament
Accessories by Maison Berthelin
Plaster casts by Plastikos

I applied myself only to the relief and to the details of the images that came forth from the great darkness of the human body. I adopted them then and there as the documentary scenes of another kingdom. That is why this film, which has only one style - that, for example, of the bearing or the gestures of a man - presents many surfaces for its exegesis. Its exegeses were innumerable. If I were questioned about any one of them, I would have trouble in answering

My relationship with the work was like that of a cabinetmaker who puts together the pieces of a table whom the spiritualists, who make the table move, consult.

"The Blood of a Poet" draws nothing from either dreams or symbols. As far as the former are concerned, it initiates their mechanism, and by letting the mind relax, as in sleep, it lets memories intertwine and express themselves freely. As for the latter, it rejects them, and substitutes acts, or allegories of those acts, that the spectator can can make symbols of if he wishes.

The innumerable faults of "The Blood of a Poet" end up by giving it a certain appeal. For example, I am most attached to the images. These give it an almost sickening slowness. When I complained of this recently to Andre Gide, he replied that I was wrong, that this slowness was a rhythm of my own, inherent in me at the time I made the film, and that changing the rhythm would spoil the film.

He is undoubtedly right. I am without doubt no longer sensitive to "element of God" that he speaks of, and that this film uses and abuses. As I know it far too well, I can only observe the the acts, and the slowness with which they follow each other hides the rest from me.

Several young people declare that they prefer the dullest reality to such fantasies. Others condemn the film for sacrileges that did not even skim the surface of my mind. Others find wonders in it that I myself would have liked to have put there. Others accuse it of eccentricity. The only valid opinion is that of the technicians. They all agree that the images are lasting and fresh.

No film music is more beautiful than Georges Auric's. No photography is more stunning than Périnal's. I was lucky to have such assistance in an enterprise that was so hazardous to begin with.

Above all, what really marks "The Blood of a Poet" is, I think, a complete indifference to what the world finds "poetic," the care taken on the contrary, to create a vehicle for poetry - whether it is used as such or not.

Is the choice of protagonists not significant? They are amateurs, presences untrained as actors, whose sole duty was to play their role. The statue was Lee Miller, a friend of Man Ray. She had never been in a film before and has never been in a film since. We saw her again in uniform in 1945. The poet was Enrique Rivero, a young Chilean who was chosen for his dispassionate appearance. The Louis XV friend was Jean Desbordes. The black angel was Féral Benga, a jazz dancer. The students were assistant stage hands. Barbette, Pauline Carton, and Odette Thalazac did no more than appear briefly.

In the first version of the film the Viscount and Viscountess of Noailles, the Prince and Princess of Faucigny-Lucinge, and Lady Abdy were in the loge on the left. But when their families saw that they were applauding a suicide, they forbade it. We had to reshoot the scene of the loges with extras and the friendly presence of Barbette.

Buñuel's "The Golden Age" and "The Blood of a Poet" were both commisioned by the Viscount of Noailles. The religious scandal of one overflowed on to the other. Unobservant people made an intrigue out of it. The two films remained locked up in a safe and the Viscount of Noailles, in return for a gesture unique in France, became the victim of the worst persecutions. It wasn't until 1931 that we were able to show our films. At the Vieux Colombier, mine, badly printed, badly spliced and badly projected, provoked scandals and battles without even being able to defend itself by it's lustre. It was recognized much later, thanks to the universities that asked for it, showed it and considered it a subject for study.
Most of the people who assisted me have become important personalities in the film world. When I meet them, we always talk with affection of our shared memories.

I would like to add that chance sent me Georges Périnal, without whose skill, "The Blood of a Poet" would have quickly faded from sight. What a happy and free time it was! I had sent seven telegrams to seven cameramen. Périnal was the first to show up.

Michel Arnaud was my assistant, as were Page, Viguier and Pomme-Pernette, who is now Marc Allégret's first assistant.

Miss Miller has become a well known jouralist and photographer. Rivero is dead. Desbordes is dead, tortured and killed by the Militia in the Rue de la Pompe, 1943.

It is difficult for me, you will admit, to consider such a film without being moved by the circumstances that enriched it. It would be like seeing only the edge of it - unless so much dreaming has given it a halo and the camera has caught in advance those qualities that man can never discover in people and objects.

I have often noticed this phenomenon. It is important for directors to take it into account. They must be careful; they must always be concerned with the choice of their team, good relations and the atmosphere that surrounds the filming.

I know many films that put me to shame. I do not know of one that is less slave to the methods of an art "that is the same age as I" and that therefore never forced me to burden myself with examples.
To sum up, "The Blood of a Poet" and my new film "Beauty and The Beast" are aimed at the aficionados. It is true that I do not kill the bull according to the rules. But this contempt for the rules is accompanied by a contempt for the danger that excites a large number of people.

Jean Cocteau

This essay first appeared in Two Screenplays: The Blood of a Poet and Testament of Orpheus