1

aka AUVERS-SUR-OISE or AUVERS Directed by Maurice Pialat

part of the series CHRONIQUES EN FRANCE
Scenario Maurice Pialat
Directed by Maurice Pialat
Cinematography Gilles Henry
Year of Première 1965 Jacques Loiseleux
Format 35mm / 1.37:1 original aspect ratio Emmanuel Machuel

Production Design Philippe Pallut

Katia Wyszkop

Editing Yann Dedet

Nathalie Hubert
Hélène Viard

Sound Jean-Pierre Duret

Costume Design Edith Vesperini

Music André Bernot

Jean-Marc Bouget
Jacques Dutronc
Philippe Reverdy

Year of Première 1991

Format 35mm / 1.66:1 original aspect ratio

Jacques Dutronc as Vincent van Gogh

Alexandra London as Marguerite Gachet

Bernard Le Coq as Théo van Gogh

Gérard Séty as Docteur Gachet

Corinne Bourdon as Jo

Elsa Zylberstein as Cathy

Leslie Azzoulai (as Leslie Azoulai) as Adeline Ravoux

Jacques Vidal as Ravoux

Chantal Barbarit as Madame Chevalier

 Pialat & Van Gogh:
Fellow Outsiders
by Sabrina Marques
(2013)

“To look at the picture ought to rest the brain or rather the imagination.”
– Vincent van Gogh,
letter to his brother Théo about the painting “Bedroom in Arles”

SOCIETY’S SUICIDE

I n one of his famous art history books, Gombrich portrayed

Van Gogh as an artist who crossed art by faith with a “sense
of mission”. He fought with his brush, he battled until the last
consequences. He remained a painter even when absorbed
in a desperate loneliness. He kept his freedom as few like
him had. He was a “society’s suicide”, as Artaud put it. He
attacked conformism and conventions with “incendiary mixtures
and atom bombs”, and he became an outcast. Madness? Or

4 5
an active lucidity that any medicine might have helped? A
clairvoyance that his time couldn’t understand, maybe?
By the end of May 1890, Van Gogh withdrew to
Auvers-sur-Oise to consult Docteur Gachet. The three months
that followed were his last. Those are the humble times in the
south of France we watch through Pialat’s fiction. In fact, the
director had always preserved a special interest for the Dutch
painter. Almost thirty years before, he had already directed a
documentary short-film named Van Gogh [1965] included in the
series Chroniques en France [Chronicles in France]. And in
À nos amours. [Here’s to Love. / To Our Romance., 1983],
Pialat (playing the role of the father) quotes what’s assumed
to have been Van Gogh’s last sentence – “La tristesse durera
toujours” [“Sadness will last forever”] – before commenting
on it: “I thought Van Gogh was talking about himself, about
his misery, but no. He was trying to say that the battle will last
forever. It’s you who are sad.”
EMOTIONAL LANDSCAPES
T he simplicity of Van Gogh’s life is inscribed in the
depurated surface of the film. Its main feat is its
concision. Historical reconstitution has been wrested away
from its usual elaboration. In fact, the accuracy of historical
reconstruction doesn’t interest Pialat – we can see, for
example, how the famous question of the chopped ear (even
though it is mentioned in the film) is ignored by the physical
6 7
characterisation of Van Gogh. Pialat is focused on the
presentation of a man and the battles within him apart from his
name (thus, we rarely see his paintings and, even more rarely,
his most iconic ones).
In spite of its apparent simplicity, the production
difficulties grew and the diminutive budget of forty-five million
francs was not enough. The shooting had to be interrupted.
However, at the time of its première in 1991, the film was
enthusiastically received both by critics and by the public. Pialat
had surpassed himself and this was to be his masterpiece. And
still a film of a painter about a painter.
A detailed attention to cinematography, a skilful
mastery of perspective, and a regard to composition construct,
in this film, images of a persistent beauty – both in episodes
of immense genius and of immense squalor. But it isn’t Van
Gogh’s vivid chromaticism that provides the film with its
colours. Actually, Pialat is inspired by the incipient palette of
the Impressionists, the sovereign canon in Van Gogh’s days.
We therefore see his world as Van Gogh didn’t see it. We could
never access with any exactitude his genius, his vision, his
mind. This is one of Pialat’s triumphs, in permanent insurrection
against academicism. The formal aspects of Van Gogh are a
demonstration of this liberty. The shots bloom with fluidity. If in
one moment, the studied fixity of the camera holds the actors’
movements, in the next zooms and pans it coordinates the
speed of a chat at the table. Everything exists naturally. The
characters exist within reality, they converse with a sincerity
that is sometimes brutal. And the beauty is there, raw, inherent
to the layers of life in pasty smudges of small precision.
BEAUTIFUL OUTSIDERS
T his permanent sensation of Beauty – beautiful fields,
beautiful colours, beautiful girls, beautiful songs – comes
with an intoxicating monotony. This is Van Gogh’s portrait
of inadaptation, he whose troubled personality couldn’t be
contained within pleasant conventions. His painting doesn’t
reproduce reality, it rather interprets it; it interprets itself. Sky
and land are mixed up, water and sky are mixed up, detail is
absent. He discovers the affectivity of solid colours, he relates
forms and colours hoping to alter the world by altering the look
of the things in it. The feverish energy of the brush continues.
The noisy strength of the spatula attacks the canvas. The
furious convulsions of the hand are intuitive. The strokes don’t
detail. As the urge rises, the secret reality of the eyes is born in
solid colours. The style is impulsive. The style is the message.
As the “eye is a great heart that sends the camera hurtling”
(Jean-Luc Godard, in his letter to Pialat), the fingers of the
painter are his heart too. Van Gogh painted the world he wished
others saw. In a letter to his brother, he describes his urge to
cleanse form and colour, “giving by its simplification a grander
style to things”.
These paintings are raw wounds of colour. Van
8 9
Gogh had the vortical need to invent his own mirror. All is free
there, all stands beyond the order of the visible. Expression is
emotion. This rush carries the strength of life. One lives his life
for art until one loses his life – but art remains. In the end, isn’t
the overcoming of time the ultimate aspiration for any artist?
And Van Gogh and Pialat arrived there through incomparably
different paths.
THE DESTRUCTION
P ialat’s state of struggle was of a different kind. Famous
for his unstable posture, he has always interpolated the
most prodigious moments with the most irascible words of
resentment. Like Van Gogh, Pialat was an outsider, rambling
among schools, movements, groups. Having dedicated himself
to other arts such as painting (which he declared his favourite
art of all) and theatre (admittedly without vocation in this field),
it was through the cinema that he had formulated the deepest
dialogue with himself. If with this Van Gogh the mastery of his
cinematographic art overcomes itself, it is also here that the
confrontation of the artist against incomprehension is portrayed,
in the figure of a Van Gogh that is (also) Pialat.
To read the letters of Van Gogh to his good brother
Théo, an art dealer, is to unveil the confessions of a spirit in
doubt, which alternates a fierce faith in his own work with a
profound disbelief held by a sense of failure, doubt, and guilt. In
Pialat’s film, the painter never theorises, debates, explains, or
legitimises his own art, contrary to what happens with Minnelli’s
Van Gogh in Lust for Life [1956]. Dutronc encloses himself
inside a body of permanent tension. He seems incarcerated
in a mutism from which he frees himself only through excess:
the rip of the brush, the verbal fury, the sexual promiscuity, the
frenzy of the dance, the physical confrontation. One senses the
ultimate abyss where, in desire for the absolute, his destruction
will arrive. This rupture is inscribed in the simplicity of that
moment of so much interpreted symbolism: Walking with Jo,
Van Gogh throws himself suddenly into the river, noisily, staging
a suicide. It is the calm perfection of the Impressionists that is
shattered by the impetus of Van Gogh, at the same time that, in
a cynical and almost burlesque tone, it foreshadows what is to
happen. Art is not splendour, art is not dazzle – art is something
else. It exists in the soul alongside brutality.

This is a film about a slow end, almost voiceless.

Loss is everywhere. It is the process of a body untying from
itself, falling into a secret madness and letting go at the mercy
of a mind without sovereignty, in the margins of society. He
belongs nowhere, he belongs to a time that hasn’t arrived yet
(and that he won’t live to experience).

We will remember the sore sight of madness in

that mute and dry body folding inside itself. This Van Gogh
with his “eyes fixed in the land and never in the sky,” as Serge
Toubiana wrote in “Il s’appelle Van Gogh et il n’en a rien à
foutre” [“His Name Is Van Gogh and He Doesn’t Give a Damn

10 11
About Anything”], constantly alternates between contention and
emotional outburst. Jacques Dutronc knows how to depict the
calm intensity of that sadness, in a virtuous interpretation that
deserved the César.
Maybe the social inadequacy of Van Gogh, who
has failed in his plan to create a brotherhood of artists in
Auvers-sur-Oise is in the first place inflicted by the successive
exclusions among his peers. In deep disbelief, he carries his
sorrow into all the other worlds he passes by. A blockade, he
rejects everything and everybody. Van Gogh is the extreme
personification of that old idea (very recurrent in Pialat’s
heroes) that we are ultimately utterly alone and forsaken.
There is not a person in the film who doesn’t feel incomplete or
betrayed. Not even the couple, apparently happy at first.
THE MOVEMENT OF LIFE
P ialat’s camera accompanies the fading of hope. Pialat is
the film-maker of solitude but never leaving behind the
quiet dream of integration. Even under a melancholic shade,
hope doesn’t cease its flow, close to life. The film is crossed by
the torrent of an overwhelming energy. And in these moments
of ephemerality, all evil seems to be overcome. A brief instant...
A cheerful lunch with the Gachet family, where everybody has
fun without fearing the ridicule of contributing somehow to the
general laughter... An improvised song at an outdoor ball... The
relief of frenzied dances in pairs... And the most remarkable
12
of all moments: that frantic collective dance in the brothel,
an organic whole wonderfully filmed and choreographed,
reminding us of John Ford or Jean Renoir.
THE WOMEN
T he idea that, in Pialat’s Cinema, women are “positive
heroes” (the exact expression is by Laurence Giavarini in
his article “Hommes et femmes” [“Men and Women”], Cahiers
du cinéma, no. 449, November 1991) is crucial to this movie.
There’s the old hostess and her teenage daughter with their
motherly attention; there’s the red dress dancer-prostitute ready
to love him one day without any money being involved; but the
most relevant of all the characters is Marguerite (Alexandra
London), the bored young bourgeoise who is fascinated with
the distinct personality of Van Gogh. Introduced as a soft,
candid being, she will evolve into his antagonist. She will affirm
that he can’t paint (after he paints her portrait), she will insist
that life is more important than art, she will accept and love
him as he is. Van Gogh would obviously dedicate himself as a
whole to his art (in his last letter to Théo, unmailed, he would
write “my own work, I am risking my life for it and my reason
has half-foundered because of it…’’ ), admirably trusting his
destiny to art until the end. He resists; he carries on painting
even when nobody, not even his own brother, believed in it,
even when not having sold more than one painting in his entire
life.
13
 Away from romanticism, both Marguerite and
Vincent travel a transformative path. Marguerite initiates a
ritual of emancipation, against the conventions of her own
class, against the feminine privations, against the patriarchal
authority, against what she used to be. In spite of the hours
spent with Marguerite in light and company, Vincent’s tension
confines him as the resistance vanishes. And in that memorable
close-up in the final scene, when Marguerite assumes that Van
Gogh used to be a close friend of hers, in her triumphant face
the apprenticeship she owes him is complete. She recognises
him now as, more than an intermittent lover, a unique
being who she had the privilege of meeting and, somehow,
understanding. The artist stayed alive.

•
Pialat and Van Gogh: How many eyes don’t owe
them their fortunate corruption?

Sabrina Marques is a critic, investigator, and visual artist residing in

Lisbon, Portugal.

© 2013 Sabrina Marques / MoC

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 Letter to Pialat
by Jean-Luc Godard
(1991)

(translated from the French by Craig Keller)

M y dear Maurice, your film is astonishing, totally

astonishing; far beyond the cinematographic horizon
covered up until now by our wretched gaze. Your eye is a
great heart that sends the camera hurtling among girls, boys,
spaces, moments in time, and colours, like childish tantrums.
The ensemble is miraculous; the details, sparks of light within
this miracle; we see the big sky fall and rise from this poor
and simple earth. All of my thanks, to you and yours, for this
success – warm, incomparable, quivering. Cordially yours,

– Jean-Luc Godard

16 17
 Words from
Pialat
(1992)

What happened on this film is what happens on all my

films. I don’t like always being the scapegoat, but it goes on
happening. It was the same on this film, but I suppose someone
had to take the brunt – it’s symptomatic of today’s cinema. The
film was stopped because it was costing too much, because
it was under-budgeted. Some of the costs could have been
avoided totally, and others reduced. It should have cost about
40 million francs, whereas we spent over 60 million francs.
About 15 or 20 million went up in smoke, spent on sets, things
we didn’t even use. As a result the film was stopped, to save 3
million francs and three weeks of shooting. It’s not very logical,
saving 3 million on a film that’s costing 60 million. The 3 million
that were then found, and now represent three quarters of an
hour of the film. I am partly responsible, but it all seems odd, I
didn’t believe it was going to stop and leave everyone in limbo,
with no one making any decisions, least of all the decision to

LEFT: Maurice Pialat on set. 19

put a halt to the enormous sums of money being swallowed
up in set designs that were finally never used. We even had
to finish the film twice. We resumed filming knowing that we
couldn’t go through to the end, and then filmed again a month
later. All this enabled people like Dutronc to claim that we
filmed for eight months, although in fact it was only four, which
was already a lot. He said other things as well, while claiming it
was nothing to do with him. I realised that, out of the ten films
I’d made, five have been stopped during filming, one of which,
Loulou [1980], was stopped for over a year. Can you imagine
making a film, all the time knowing that you’re almost bound not
to finish it? With Loulou, it wasn’t my fault. Isabelle Huppert
left for a year to go rollerskating with [director Michael] Cimino
[in the scene in Heaven’s Gate (1980)]. Then the producers
went bankrupt, so for months we screened the film with chunks
missing. So, all in all, ten films, five of which were filmed in
two parts. You must admit that it’s sod’s law that it always
falls on me, who has a reputation for causing trouble. Do you
believe that for one minute? It’s masochism, it doesn’t make
sense. Right from the start I had problems, as I was up against
the wall, I felt like a reject. One day, when I’m calm, I should
write all this down like a police report, objective and without
bitterness. [...]
A team of set decorators spent a month doing
nothing. Twenty people being paid. Did you notice that you
don’t see any exteriors in the film? That’s another thing, critics
who know everything. Like at school, when you did something,
20
and then someone, who was usually ignorant, took your hand
and told you what you were trying to do. For instance, I was
told it was intentional that you saw nothing of Auvers. Or that
you don’t see Van Gogh painting. In fact, I had no choice in
these matters. But I cracked it. I work best when everything is
going wrong. [...]
[The film] shouldn’t be as it is, there’s so much
missing. It’s okay, but you don’t see all that should be in it, and
isn’t there. [...]
[In the film] I cut some shots in which he was simply
holding a paintbrush, not even painting. I find it all so false.
Sadly, in some scenes, such as when Marguerite is posing for
him at the piano, we see him painting outside. It’s dreadful.
Resorting to using the hand of a real painter is awful too. To
make it credible you need a look, a feel. I just had to let the
piano scene ride, I was so stunned by the child’s performance,
and I thought that if I said “Cut!”, she would think that she
wasn’t doing it right. Anyway, no one sees anything. I could
have put in some link shots, but putting separate shots into a
sequence like this is very unsuccessful.
[Regarding most people only seeing a film once and
not noticing the worrisome details, that’s] something interesting
about the cinema. It’s worth thinking about. There is no reason
why people shouldn’t see films several times, but fewer and
fewer people are really capable of, or interested in, discovering
21
things. Those who have this awareness and knowledge, this
desire, and who go back again and again to see a film – these
are the people we should primarily be making films for. [...]
When I started to paint, I was twenty years old, I
adored Van Gogh. I grew to like him less and less. A long time
ago, I wanted to make a film about him, not out of admiration
but because the story his sister put together was good raw
material. Otherwise, I’m more interested in, say, Seurat’s last
year. Just as, other things being equal, if I was going to adapt
Bernanos, I’d have been better off doing L’Imposture [The
Fake, 1927] than Sous le soleil de Satan [Under the Sun of
Satan, 1926, which Pialat adapted into a film in 1987].
To return to Van Gogh, I’ve just mentioned Seurat.
What beginners like about Van Gogh, is the ease with which he
works. You couldn’t buy pictures like that at the time, it would
have been unimaginable. [...]
In the first place, it would have been hard to find an
actor to play Seurat. [...]
Listen, [producer Daniel] Toscan du Plantier has
many failings, but he’ll do anything. The proof is Sous le soleil
de Satan. That was looney. You’re probably going to say I’m
obsessed with the box office, but Seurat would have sold thirty
thousand tickets, no more. Anyway, films about painters never
work. Though, for the first three weeks, we thought Van Gogh
22
was going to do well. [Editor’s note: Van Gogh sold 1.4 million
tickets in France.]
I am disappointed in that I expect a great deal of my
audiences, I am too demanding. People are facile. Like it or
not, cinema needs commercial success. [...]
In 1964, I made a short I could show you. It lasted
six minutes. At the time, I was making Chroniques en
France for television, short programmes for French-language
broadcasts worldwide, not shown in France. I made about ten
of these bread-and-butter projects. One of them was a little film
called Auvers [i.e., the 1965 Van Gogh], which was not just
about Van Gogh but about Daubigny too; there were landscape
shots of the area, a little rostrum work, not much, in black-and-
white. [...]
[The actor Daniel Auteuil] met Bernard-Henri Lévy
and wanted to shoot his Baudelaire [Lévy’s 1988 novel Les
derniers jours de Charles Baudelaire, or The Last Days
of Charles Baudelaire]. [...] I started to read the thing, but I
didn’t get to the end. I couldn’t see myself doing a period piece
with all those top hats. I didn’t feel like doing another costume
drama, even if I did end up doing exactly that with Van Gogh,
though in this instance we were fairly restrained. The exception
is the two dance-hall scenes, which were a bit hasty, a bit “let’s
get it in the can”.
23
 I’m giving you a psychoanalytic interpretation here,
though it may not seem like that. You’re the one on the couch,
but I’m the one suffering. This is how I make a film. I meet a
nice chap who commissions me, but doesn’t put money on the
table. He does bring a bit in though, because with his name
someone like me can get a bigger budget. So I say, “I’ve got
something I want to do.” [...]
[Opening the film with a shot of Van Gogh painting,
and the hand actually being my own, is] an admission that
something is missing. There’s so little painting in the film, we
had to start with that.
[Regarding costume and dialogue, and focusing
on the most concrete aspects of everyday life so that there is
nothing anachronistic] – As far as the dialogue is concerned,
the reason is really simple: I didn’t think about it. The language
is not really contemporary. What people forget when they
make museum films, the huge anachronism, is that people
never speak old-French. I believe that if you start using period
terminology, you might as well give up. As far as the costumes
are concerned, things are even simpler. There are plenty of
photographic records of the period and it would have been easy
to use them. But I wanted to avoid stiff collars and top hats.
I was haunted by that. We had some made in London, which
were okay but – surprise, surprise – they are not in the final cut.
But the naff things – the ones we hired – do appear a couple of
times. [...]
24
This may sound immodest, but I think one of my
talents is turning fuck-ups to my own advantage. Which isn’t
to say I seek them out. When something goes wrong – and
this is part of my theory that the real true moment in film-
making is the shoot itself because what counts is what’s in
the can – then I always find a way out. I believe I steered the
film towards those comic moments, to the extent of my ability
to do so. I’ve been wanting to make a comedy for a long time
now, but I wouldn’t know how to write it, I have neither the wit
nor the sense of dialogue to write the screenplay. People like
Woody Allen, even [Jacques] Audiard, know how to do that.
I’d need to shoot someone else’s writing, though with that
person’s permission, I’d have to stick my nose into his work.
It’s true that this is one dimension of Van Gogh, but then the
expectation is of something heavy and dramatic. I wanted to
inject some humour, some fantasy, without – I hope – being
too heavy-handed. [...] I steered the movie in that direction to
make it more fun to watch. Basically, the natural audience for
Van Gogh are the people who never went to see it. Anyway, I
don’t think life is all that dramatic. We’ve all seen people die.
Well, to the very end, life hangs on in there. Just because
someone’s a painter, it doesn’t mean they have to go around
with this inspired, affected expression on their face. Painting is
technical, you do it as well as you can.
I do think that Van Gogh was more driven than my
depiction allows. That’s a weakness in the acting. Just think all
he managed to paint in those seventy days! I read in [Stefan]
25
Zweig’s bad book about Nietzsche [Nietzche, 1925] – it could
only be bad, given what Zweig is like – that Van Gogh painted
really fast. That sounds right, I’m sure it’s true. Actually, it’s
something he could be criticised for. The idea that painting is
about gesture came later. It’s in a different class. Some of his
contemporaries, like Seurat, went on preparing their canvasses
and meditating. Cézanne needed up to sixty sittings for a
portrait and redid the picture from start to finish at each sitting.
In terms of portraiture, the result is not always as good as Van
Gogh’s portraits, even if purely in terms of pictorial achievement
there is more to it. Van Gogh, on the other hand, could do up to
three pictures a day. [...]
I may express opinions through the character [of Van
Gogh]’s mouth but he is quite unlike me. I exercised restraint
in the remarks about critics, I could have gone much further.
As far as I’m concerned, the best pieces are demolition jobs. I
prefer negative criticism of my own work. When someone who
is reasonably silly and not very well-educated – I mean critics
in general – decides to lay into a film, he turns quite nasty, he
seeks out the flaws and often gets it right. Whereas praise...
[...]
Perhaps I had to wait till I reached an advanced age
before I could show men and women in a relaxed relationship.
Before now, I have depicted the bitches I came across in my
life. [...]
26
We had a meal in a good restaurant which recently
closed, unfortunately. One of the waiters had seen Van Gogh,
like quite a few people who know me. Well, there was one
thing he didn’t really get and that was the death scene. He
wasn’t sure if he’d followed it properly or not, but he reckoned
that the prostitute had sent one of the men to kill him out of
jealousy. When you hear that, you know he’s right. Audiences
that know nothing about Van Gogh are accustomed, because
they watch TV series, to know exactly who kills whom. And if
there’s a mystery, it’s always solved at the end. The funny thing
is that I was going to called the film Who Killed Van Gogh?. I
also liked Dr Gachet’s Daughter. It wouldn’t have made much
difference. [...]
I’ve got a cuttings book from the [1991 Cannes]
festival. The press is bad, which is incredibly unfair. I don’t mind
telling you that by the end of the edit, I thought Van Gogh was
the best film in France since the war. When a film is released,
you need to believe in it and the fact is that, to an extent, Van
Gogh was up to my expectations. But now I know it’s not good
enough. If I was the only judge, but I am not. There are lots of
reasons why no one can make the best film in France since the
war. In any case, those kinds of competitions are a bit like the
Tour de France. I don’t much care for them. I really feel that you
can’t let the kind of of press coverage that we had at Cannes
pass – it’s unforgivable. Editors should sack critics for writing
that kind of article; that’s assuming editors are any better than
their journalists, which is often not the case. Usually they’re
27
worse since they have to play the guard-dog. I hear that one
woman journalist was sacked, but I don’t think that was the
reason. [...]

When we stood up for the applause [at the Cannes

screening], at the end, I knew there were a few alterations that
needed doing, childish little things. We went up to the actors,
kissed them, shook their hands. That way, you get the clapping
to last a bit longer, there are always people timing these things,

•
though the timings they get are always wrong. I like playing that
sort of trick. I’m a bit of a ham, really. A big ham.

(excerpts translated from the French of Pialat in conversation

with Michel Ciment and MIchel Sineux by Pierre Hodgson)

RIGHT: Maurice Pialat on set.

28 29
 NOTES ON VIEWING BLU-RAY CREDITS
Van Gogh was shot in the 1.66:1 aspect ratio. For widescreen systems screening this
disc, the display mode should be toggled (via the corresponding button on the remote MoC Producers Blu-ray Authoring
or on-screen setup menu) until the frame appears with its original dimensions intact, Craig Keller David Mackenzie
with black bars bordering the left and right of the image. Jon Robertson
Andrew Utterson Special Thanks
INCORRECT: James White Ron Benson
Nathascha Broohm / Gaumont
Booklet Editor Claire Debrot / Gaumont
Craig Keller Marcus Garwood
Steve Hills
Booklet, Cover, and Menu Design Kevin Lambert
Craig Keller Sabrina Marques
Virginie Royer / Gaumont
Dan Sallitt

The above images (shown here in greyscale) are a distortion and corruption of the
other films by Maurice Pialat in The Masters of Cinema Series:
original artwork, which travesty the integrity of both the human form
and cinematographic space. L’ENFANCE-NUE (1968)
NOUS NE VIEILLIRONS PAS ENSEMBLE (1972)
CORRECT: LA GUEULE OUVERTE (1974)
PASSE TON BAC D’ABORD... (1979)
À NOS AMOURS. (1983)
POLICE (1985)
SOUS LE SOLEIL DE SATAN (1987)

“VAN GOGH”
© 1991 Gaumont.

The Masters of Cinema Series #67 www.mastersofcinema.org

The film image (shown here in greyscale) as intended by the director when shown For sale in U.K. and Ireland only. This product is licensed for private home use only. Any other use
on a widescreen display (with black bars on the left and right). including copying, reproduction, or performance in public, in whole or in part, is expressly
prohibited by applicable laws. This edition and package design © 2013 Eureka Entertainment Ltd.
SPECIAL NOTE: Any “motion smoothing” settings (such as “PureMotion” / “MotionFlow”, etc.)
should be switched OFF so the film can be viewed as intended. Please calibrate your display
settings in order to experience this film optimally (many factory default settings are neither
suitable nor desirable).
30 31
 some paintings
by Maurice Pialat

The Masters of Cinema

Series EKA70110