SUMMARY

The Cinema of Roger Vitrac

Competing with the cinema, which quickly became sound, the theater experienced a major crisis in the 1930s. As an avant-garde playwright, Roger Vitrac turned to cinema to earn a living. He was drawn to it as much by his skill as a dialogue writer as by his constant interest in the art of moving images. He worked with renowned filmmakers such as Jean Grémillon, Pierre Chenal, Jean Dréville, Jacques Becker, Jean Delannoy, and Léonide Moguy. In addition, he developed numerous film adaptations that were never made, as well as original screenplays. The study of three of these highlights his recurring concerns in both theater and cinema. The film criticism he published in L’Écran Français after the war, along with his various collaborations, resumes and deepens a cinematic aesthetic he had already tested on the stage. This aesthetic centers on three points: the relevance of myth, real life as it is, and a metaphysical vaudeville, which I characterize in this study.

In the 1930s, the rise of cinema and the advent of talkies led to a certain waning of interest in theater, which indirectly affected the only revolutionary venture of the era, the Théâtre Alfred Jarry, run by Artaud and Vitrac. Notably, the theater had scheduled a film, Mother by Pudovkin, for its second program as a protest against censorship.

It is therefore not by chance that Roger Vitrac, whose dramatic work best exemplifies the avant-garde possibilities of the genre without compromise, had to turn to the seventh art—primarily for financial reasons—where he worked as a screenwriter, dialogue writer, and critic. Did he thereby lose his soul? Through what he saw only as a substitute for his creative ambitions, did he not find a way to express what was truly important to him—his own vision of existence or, at least, some of his favorite themes?

I. From Theater to Cinema

A. THE CINEMATIC GAZE

Elsewhere, I have discussed how, from his earliest compositions, Vitrac possessed a flair for theater, which had left a mark on him since early childhood. But he was no less attuned to cinema, as evidenced by some of his poems and especially his earliest suggestions for scenes, which were more or less silent.

One of his Surrealist poems in La Lanterne noire imagines the creation of the following images: “It comes to mind to propose the impossible. To construct a lyric drama in which each image would truly be rendered in its immediate sense. I mean that the Azure should truly be Azure above the set. I would make no concessions. If I spoke of an emerald river, even if I had to gather every emerald on earth, I would want to see them all glittering on stage (1).” Clearly, only cinema could easily achieve such things.

Previously, as early as December 1921, he had published in Aventure an article called “Animated Photographs,” inspired by Jean Epstein’s film Zenith, in which he praised cinema as a lyrical means of changing one’s skin without leaving one’s seat (2); and then in April 1922 in the journal Littérature, he published a series of sequences belonging as much to theater as to cinema (3). The continuity of these scenes evokes a bundle of sensations and ideas, an embryonic diegesis, so apt is the human mind to bridge what may have no necessary link. Here, it is clear that the technical limits of theater would be transcended by film.

B. A SUPPLEMENTARY OCCUPATION?

Having had to reread works by and about Vitrac that relate, directly or indirectly, to cinema, I realized how much I had, unknowingly, set a standard. In other words, the information I so painstakingly gathered for my first thesis in 1966 was subsequently reused without reference to its origin. Plagiarism, one might say? No, rather, a commonly accepted narrative. That is why I now permit myself to reproduce, in full, my initial observations.

“Vitrac first considered cinema when, at the start of the summer of 1934, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer in New York requested the manuscript of his Coup de Trafalgar to adapt as a film. The project went no further. The following year, however, he was called to Berlin to work at UFA with Raoul Ploquin, for whom he wrote the dialogue for the film Cavalerie légère, and he adapted Pattes de mouche by Victorien Sardou for Jean Grémillon, with whom he was delighted to collaborate: ‘Everything is going well and I am thrilled with my work, the stay, Grémillon, the weather, the sky, and life itself,’ he wrote (4). In 1937, he adapted Pirandello’s The Man from Nowhere for director P. Chenal. He then found himself in Nice, writing dialogue for what was to be Jacques Becker’s first film, L’Or du Cristobal, under the moral guidance of J. Renoir. Unfortunately, halfway through shooting, the producers went bankrupt, paying their collaborators with bronze coins meant to represent the pirate ship’s gold.

In 1939, he once again stayed in Nice to adapt Maurice Dekobra’s Macao, enfer du jeu for the screen, a film directed by Jean Delannoy. For Delannoy, he also wrote the dialogue for L’Assassin a peur la nuit by Pierre Véry, still in Nice, in 1942—the same year he completed Feu Sacré with Viviane Romance as lead actress.

Thanks to the kindness of Mr. Delannoy, we have been able to read the dialogues Vitrac wrote for Macao and L’Assassin. It’s clear that his freedom to write what he liked was highly restricted. The role of dialogue writer, although crucial in a production, is nevertheless subject to overriding imperatives. Vitrac tried to create lively dialogue, peppered with wordplay and witty reflections, but it is not always easy to adapt such tones to action films!

In 1945, short of money, Vitrac devised several projects, in particular an adaptation of Sentimental Education (5) and an original screenplay, Women Never Lie (6), which shows the real Vitrac—humorous and whimsical, kind, tender, and cruel all at once. It’s the tale of a handsome young misogynist. He cannot stand women because they lie. His friends create a supposedly mute girl for him, and he falls for the trick. Here we find those inexplicable situations that give his theater its intellectual appeal, and even an Isabelle Mortemard who somewhat resembles her namesake Ida, in Victor or Power to the Children.

It goes without saying that these projects, attractive as they are, must be counted among the many failures that often befell Vitrac. Another original script should be added: Passage de l’Opéra (7), which recreates the surrealist atmosphere of that location, under the pretext of a small intrigue: two young friends are in love with the same woman. It’s regrettable the idea was not pursued; we might have had a cinematic counterpart to Aragon’s Le Paysan de Paris.

In 1947, he wrote the dialogue for Bethsabée, a novel by Pierre Benoît, for director Léonide Moguy. The press (8) delighted in the ironic meeting of Vitrac and a member of the Académie française, whose work he discreetly sabotaged, slipping in prank lines such as: “I don’t believe in your two-bit novel,” which journalists promptly applied to P. Benoît. If the film was little appreciated by critics, at least Vitrac benefited from a trip to Morocco.

In 1948, the film Si ça peut vous faire plaisir appeared in theaters, notable only for starring Fernandel. Vitrac had finished the adaptation as early as April 1946.

That about sums up the films in which Vitrac left a touch of his spirit. Let us repeat that for him, this activity was nothing more than a way to make a living. One should not look for genius where none can be found. [1][4][5]

C. A NOTED DIALOGUE WRITER

More than any other art, cinema is a collective activity in which each person’s contribution is difficult to pinpoint. This is an inevitable truism when examining the work of a dialogue writer like Vitrac. In pre-war filmmaking practice—and even when he contributed to the script—the dialogue writer only intervened at the final stage, to add a touch of brilliance to the verbal exchanges, competing with theater since technology had made speech possible.

What role did Vitrac play in the fifteen or so films he worked on (a detailed list can be found in the appendix)? He might have suggested the choice of work to the producer or director, shaped the script, proposed stage directions, and, above all, brought his wit, wordplay, and puns to often lackluster works[3]. Vitrac kept no records of his contributions. To truly assess his input, one would need access to all the preparatory versions of a film—from the adapted work to the scenario and then to the final shooting script—documents rarely preserved by directors. I was able to do this for a few titles. Yet, even when one is fortunate enough to read a complete script, there is never any guarantee it is entirely his work, nor that it was used during filming.

So I will confine myself to two concrete examples, which, as we say in the sciences, are falsifiable, since they are relatively accessible on video.

First, Pierre Chenal’s adaptation of a Pirandello novel, Feu Mathias Pascal, released as L’Homme de nulle part because of an earlier version by Marcel L’Herbier.

In a late interview, Pierre Chenal clarified the exact role Vitrac had in creating this film: "I had started with Salacrou, but unfortunately we couldn’t see eye to eye because he was pulling the script toward tragedy. But I saw it with dark humor. It didn’t work out between us. We separated. I thought of Vitrac because Victor ou Les Enfants au pouvoir had made a strong impression on me at the time. So I contacted him. I told him about the book and we hit it off right away. We discovered we were on the same wavelength. [...] So I did the adaptation myself. I’d written placeholder dialogues and taken some from Pirandello. That’s my working method. Vitrac was then to do the dialogues. Once he had finished, it led to several changes in the script. So I revised everything to end up with impeccable dialogues and a fully completed script (9)."

Chenal is speaking here in the language of the 1980s. Even if the phrase “dark humor” wasn’t in use at the time of shooting, he meant that Vitrac’s knack for drawing tragedy from the comic and the trivial was well known to him. For my part, viewing this film, I rediscovered Vitrac’s touch not only in the overall dialogues but also in the séance scene (quite likely leading to changes in the script), where the great Max is invoked, and in the ever-contextual retorts. For instance, Mathias exclaims “Life is beautiful!” and his aunt retorts, “Life is beautiful? Idiot.” Addressing the old, nearly deaf librarian, he shouts, “You’re deaf!” and he replies, “I hear, I hear!” Pierre Blanchar skillfully plays the contrast between his submissive demeanor at the start and the toughness of a self-made man at the end. Shot in Italy, on real locations, the film evokes a Mediterranean atmosphere, not without recalling settings dear to Vitrac.

The film’s initial reception was not particularly warm, as evidenced by this comment from Henri Langlois: “Throughout the film, even making use of every possible and imaginable prop (such as Blanchard-Mathias’s beard), Chenal pursues nothing but effect in every form, always the least subtle, the most overused: dramatic effect (Mathias’s pained burst of laughter), comic effect (the nervous breakdown of the Paleoni widow), scenario effect (the laugh of the two young people at the start, or the delivery of a supplier’s bill the day of the wedding), situational effects (the funeral of the fake Mathias in the real Mathias’s presence), dialogue effects (Blanchar’s monologue to the audience), and so on, all the way to cinematic effects. [...] No, it isn’t enough to be tenacious or ambitious in what you choose as subject. One must be ambitious in the way one treats it. (10)”

Justice was rendered to the film some fifty years later, when it aired on television. Here, Vitrac’s name lent credibility to the sudden shifts in action and biting retorts: "A baroque, extravagant film, at the limits of the fantastic, where realism is flouted. [...] In L’Homme de nulle part there is an anarchic humor that gleefully mocks marriage, the family, and all values. The dialogue (Roger Vitrac outbidding Pirandello) is positively crackling... (11)” Or again: “Pierre Chenal’s Pirandellian games, enhanced by Roger Vitrac’s poetic and sarcastic dialogues, are, for those who have never experienced them, a real surprise (12)...”

A second example, where the dialogue writer seems to recede into the background, is Le Joueur d’échecs directed by Jean Dréville, from a now-forgotten novel. I do not know to what extent Vitrac was involved in this film, originally shot by Raymond Bernard in 1926, but the fact is that, a great reader of Edgar Poe in Baudelaire’s translation, he insisted on placing at the head of the first significant article on Raymond Roussel, published in February 1928 in the NRF, an image of The Turk, Automaton and Chess Player, which shows how strongly he was interested in robots, the interplay between the real and its mechanical double, and their fantastic implications.

According to Dréville himself, “the script and dialogue are rather weak, to the point that Françoise Rosay only agreed to appear if she could rewrite her scenes. Roger Vitrac, a very talented writer, is credited, for he must have participated, being under contract, at some stage or other, more from afar than up close, in the screenplay’s development. He looked at things somewhat superficially (13).” Dréville talks as if Vitrac were absent from the shoot. In any case, I found in the typewritten shooting script an addition that is doubtlessly his, dated March 26, 1938: “Potemkine: It’s you, baron, who builds dolls we’re led to believe are intelligent? You seem rather grown up still to be playing with dolls...”

Finally, drawn from the technical script of L’Assassin a peur la nuit, here are a few examples of Vitracian dialogue. The first comes straight out of Victor: “The Director: Thank you.
Vullen: Don’t mention it.
Director: Thank you, you hear me. That means I’m firing you.”
The second is built on a pun reminiscent of Camelot: “Why are you crumpling the bills? — I despise money, so it wrinkles.”
And finally, a line in line with Coup de Trafalgar: “But my dear, if you give us, you know perfectly well you’re giving yourself. Give and take, as you say.”

As I already mentioned, Vitrac, in his last contribution to the movies, distanced himself from Pierre Benoît’s novel. It would seem, after all, that he only agreed to participate in cinema for material reasons. Nevertheless, whenever possible, his choices inclined toward unusual situations, in the same spirit as what he sought to present on stage with characters such as Victor or his alter ego, little Simon, or Flore Médard, who had shaved half her head.

II. Vitrac as Screenwriter

Without dwelling on the films that were actually made—where I have attempted to highlight what can be attributed to Vitrac’s humor or to his recurring obsessions—I will now consider three screenplays he himself developed. All three remained unpublished during his lifetime and, perhaps unsurprisingly, were never produced[3].

A. THE CYCLADES

On June 18, 1931, while the organizers of the Théâtre Alfred-Jarry had not yet given up hope of reviving it despite public hostility, a weekly magazine reported—under the pen of Nino Frank—that Roger Vitrac had shot a film about the Cyclades, with cinematographers Eli Lothar (1905–1969), son of the great Romanian poet Tudor Arghezi, photographer, assistant to Man Ray, and future assistant to Buñuel for Las Hurdes, and Jacques-B. Brunius (1906–1967), actor for Renoir and Prévert, soon to be a member of the Groupe Octobre, likewise an assistant to Buñuel, director of experimental Surrealist films, and future author of En marge du cinéma français (1947)[1][5][8].

It was worth noting the surprise of seeing the author of Les Mystères de l’amour move from theater to cinema, and especially to see him become a witness to his time by making a documentary. Thus, Nino Frank let him speak in his own words:

“My goal, setting out, was to shoot a documentary on Greece; but don’t be mistaken, I was not out to film ruins. Archaeology fascinates me only up to a point... We wanted to make a living work: the ruins should take up no more space than they actually occupy in the landscape itself. What we discovered there was a fraternal welcome, astonishing light, and striking personalities. My film—which will simply be called The Cyclades—begins on Olympus: first and foremost, it is, amidst the snow, the land of the gods; I say this... but, immediately afterward, I show a ski descent that leads us directly to the Acropolis. There appears the shadow of Renan: he is still young, but his hair is white. He mumbles his famous prayer... We pushed attention to correct detail to the extreme: I am proud to declare myself a disciple of Raymond Roussel and his scrupulous lyrical precision.

To film the passage of the “Prayer on the Acropolis,” where bricks and Byzantine plaster are mentioned, we deliberately made the journey to Constantinople, where we found, in abundance, bricks and plaster... But do not think I confined myself to this kind of commemoration of Renan. As I’ve said, the life of modern Greece interested me even more.

Afterward, Crete, where the palace of Knossos met all our requirements; there you will see the Hoffmannesque silhouette of a librarian and the palace reconstructed in a Luna Park style—which I, in fact, find excellent; the extinct volcano of Santorini, the marbles of Paros, the political life of Skyros and the mysticism of Delos. In Skyros, we saw rahat loukoum being made; in Delos, Venus Amphitrite emerged from the waves, by moonlight, to the sound of jazz. Throughout our film, you’ll recognize voluntary actors: Mme Édouard Bourdet, Haardt, Kogéosinas-Averoff, and Messrs. Jacques de Lacretelle, Gabriel Boissy, Charensol. You will even see, in her château in Naxos, the granddaughter of Akricie Phrangopoulo de Gobineau... Finally, to finish, the inauguration in Skyros of a stubborn monument by Venizelos and other minor officials. Numerous and curious tourist reflections will serve as commentary for this film, which should, in my view, be the first in a series poetically studying modern Greek life and especially the Cyclades, so little known. For my part, I will also publish a book—not a documentary—that will also be titled The Cyclades.[1][2][4][8]”

Antonin Artaud’s reaction was swift: he requested and obtained a correction, published the following week, noting that the Théâtre Alfred-Jarry was founded by Robert Aron, Roger Vitrac, and himself, and that he was in fact the owner of the title[1].

It is striking that no trace of this film has since been found, which, in my view, was commissioned by Hercule Joannidès, owner of the agency Le Voyage en Grèce, who also promoted a cultural magazine of the same name and had the foresight to invite artists and public figures to enliven his cruises[2][4]. This explains the mention of volunteer actors drawn from the worlds of theater, literature, and politics. To prepare for his journey, Vitrac reread Les Pléiades by Gobineau (1874), which would later appear regularly in his private correspondence and plays. At the time, one could hardly evoke the Acropolis without recalling Ernest Renan’s famous prayer from his Souvenirs d’enfance et de jeunesse (1883), which supposedly was staged briefly for the film. Vitrac would return to this powerful allegory of East versus West in La Bagarre. What stands out from this note is the para-surrealist aesthetic Vitrac claimed for his film work, referencing the meticulous lyrical precision of Raymond Roussel[3][6].

B. PASSAGE DE L’OPÉRA

In 1966, I mentioned the screenplay titled Passage de l’Opéra, since published and introduced by Alain Virmaux. Taking the opposite tack from my too-brief analysis, Virmaux points out all that Vitrac erased from Aragon’s narrative: “In summary,” he writes, “Vitrac’s scenario is almost like an anti-Paysan de Paris, a distorting mirror of Aragon’s Passage de l’Opéra, or rather, a deliberately inverted variation (15).” In his view, it is as if the author of Victor wanted to overcome a condemned past. That seems excessive to me. To settle the matter, it seems simplest to reproduce the basic premise here:

“We know those glass-roofed passages with aquarium light, connecting obscure Parisian streets to the Grands Boulevards in both poetic and sordid ways. One can hardly cross them without a mix of curiosity, nostalgia, and unease. It’s difficult not to conjure up that fin-de-siècle era when the Grands Boulevards were a permanent social stage and their glass galleries were dazzling vestibules and discreet alcoves. The once-elegant, now-faded restaurants, barbers, and theaters evoke the stylish women, artists, and great courtesans who once laughed as they passed through. For a passage is to be crossed, not occupied. Hence the melancholy in seeing those less fortunate, who did not manage to cross with style, still living there, having aged in the musty offices and sad rooms, leading mediocre, dubious, and uneventful lives.

Such was the Passage de l’Opéra around 1925, when Boulevard Haussmann, having already gutted an entire Parisian neighborhood, threatened it with destruction.”

We see that nostalgia is certainly present, and the synopsis’ details reveal obvious borrowings. But beyond the fact that Vitrac, having frequented this passage before its demolition (at least during preparations for the Congrès de Paris (16)), genuinely knew its environment, it seems to me that if he omitted to mention the author of Le Paysan de Paris, it was because at the presumed date of the script—during the German occupation—there was no point in invoking his name. Moreover, the extremely thin plot built around this mythical place owes nothing to the illustrious predecessor. The scenario also suggests Vitrac’s debts to Balzac (Illusions perdues), Alexandre Dumas (The Three Musketeers), and others. The four young men he imagines represent more an eternal youth (ideally played by Jean Marais, François Périer, Jean Parédès, Marcel Herrand) than any dada-surrealist set, and their shared love for the beautiful Clarisse, their social ascent, and the happy ending all adhere to the conventions of the film genre. Vitrac’s tone is above all optimistic: “For the Passage de l’Opéra, like bohemia, leads everywhere—provided one leaves it. But one must choose the grand exit, opening onto Boulevard des Italiens, onto great Paris, and not the small, shameful one—Rue Chauchat, ending at the auction house where the failures of life and dreams are liquidated,” he concludes.

C. PHÈDRE

Completely unpublished, the screenplay for Phèdre has never before been mentioned. A copy was entrusted to me by Anne Guérin, Roger Vitrac’s last wife. It dates from the post-war period, at a time when the author had lost his connection to the studios; during one of those cyclical movements for which it is famous, French artistic creation as a whole was turning toward a kind of classicism. For a long time, Vitrac had highlighted the ongoing relevance of Greek tragedy (17). However, it would be a mistake to think he wished to rival Racine or even to modernize him. For him, myths are eternal, as he had already shown in Les Demoiselles du large, and there is no point in trying to evade their consequences.

Here, he intends to address the second type of incest (to use the terms of anthropologists), the one that concerns step-relations within the family, in a popular spirit, through the notion of the “monstre sacré” (living legend or revered figure). Just as Phèdre’s fate was to fall in love with Theseus, Delphine—an acclaimed actress of the Comédie Française who moved to the Boulevard theaters—will be fated to love her husband’s son. Warned by a sign, a first tragic accident, and even after abandoning a brilliant career, nothing can divert her from her destiny. She will play the role of Phèdre her husband, an entertainment entrepreneur, had intended for her. On the night of her triumph, as she goes to find her stepson, she will be killed—run over by her own husband...

Skillfully bringing theater to the screen, the screenwriter retains the essential phases of the myth, while setting it in our era among believable characters. Returning to the aesthetic of “life as it is” which he had defined for his theater (and which I will discuss further below for cinema), he invents a scene in a bistro on Place Maubert where the heroine receives an injunction from fate in the form of a former Conservatory classmate who has fallen on hard times. Under the most everyday appearance of a vagrant, the ancient Gods reveal themselves.

But most interesting, and closely linked to the subject of this symposium, is the presentation Vitrac envisioned for this film. I quote the last page of the project in full:

“The screenplay was conceived with a realization built around the public’s idea of the ‘monstre sacré.’

Thus the cinematography should be inspired by the artistic photos (17) featured in weekly magazines like Samedi-Soir.

And the ‘transitions and links’ should adopt the style of news stories and gossip columns published in weeklies, which confirm or even contradict real events.

The film will therefore unfold rapidly, like a newspaper hurriedly read. Like one of those stories that today’s press recounts as either a crime or a fairy tale.

For example, you can easily picture the film ending with Phèdre being run over by her husband’s car. He recoils in horror at the wheel, the image freezes for an instant, becoming a press photograph. And as the camera pulls back to reveal a news headline, the end of the screenplay is indicated.”

III. Cinematic Aesthetics

A. VITRAC AS FILM CRITIC

A distinctive and personal Vitrac emerges in the short columns he published nearly every week in L’Écran Français, a cinema weekly then within the orbit of the Communist party (18). Under the collective heading “Retour de manivelle,” he spent the year 1946 defending the spirit he identified in films that suited his taste: the Chaplin films, of course; the Marx Brothers; Nosferatu the Vampire; and major films released during the Occupation, such as those by Carné-Prévert: Les Visiteurs du soir, Les Enfants du paradis; a Cocteau, L’Éternel retour; despite its flaws, Les Démons de l’aube by Yves Allégret; Un couple idéal by Raymond Rouleau; and finally Falbalas by Jacques Becker. Yet he took care to repeat that he was not a professional critic!

From this perspective, I would highlight his analysis of irony in France, which reveals much of his personal experience: “Irony is conveyed by inner laughter. The ironist mocks himself and holds himself up as an example to the spectator or reader.

“But the French reader or spectator takes this personally... he prefers to get angry and pretend to believe that he is the butt of the joke. (19)”

Yet the French do enjoy laughing and appreciate English humor. It is simply that they wish to be displaced, historically and geographically, so as not to feel personally targeted.

All in all, Vitrac maintains in his film columns arguments also applicable to the visual arts and literature, considering that cinema, as the seventh art, draws from both. The path that led him to cinema—if initially motivated by financial reasons—thus appears wholly logical. It extends two of his favorite theatrical concepts: “life as it is” and “metaphysical vaudeville.”

B. “LIFE AS IT IS”

In his first article, which essentially sets out his program, he asks the public to “see clearly (20)” in that troubled era when minds were veering toward extremes. “Are you for the whole-gutter or the whole-heaven?” he asks. The gutter represents existentialism, naturalism, realism, whereas the path to the heavens is through dream, idealism, surrealism, absolute poetry. Yet, in reality, these two tendencies are only seemingly opposed, as demonstrated by the finest films made during the war. This enables him to highlight the quest for “that twilight zone where daily life ends and dream begins,” which nurtures a reconciliation of poetry and reality, always starting from reality, for art is one-way. Literature feeds on life, not the other way around, as Marcel Proust wrote.

But this does not mean that, under the pretext of realism and topicality, one should draw inspiration from events that are too recent. War films are like the plays written after 1914, which tried to depict events but quickly slipped into oblivion. For Vitrac, history is never in fashion (he coined the excellent phrase: “History, she’s the madwoman of Chaillot”); he thus demands new works, just as the Théâtre Alfred Jarry once did: “Let us remain contemporary without doing current events. To be contemporary is to resist the present moment so that it may one day be transformed. (21)” In short, cinema should resemble Baudelaire’s painter of modern life, able to extract the eternal from what is contingent and mortal. On that note, he imagines what comics might have become had the camera not intervened. Two years later, defending his adaptation of Bethsabée, he justifies himself in these terms:

“Today, if we want to depict life as it is, we are forced to cheat—that is, to veil that aspect of reality conventionally described as shocking. If we did not cheat, people would shout ‘fire’ or ‘madman.’ Before we ever reach the ideal of a truth that could be called surrealist, we would need to shed the tact and restraint that distort artistic realism. (22)”

C. A METAPHYSICAL VAUDEVILLE

As in theater, Vitrac champions humor and irony. Throughout his film columns, he laments the French cinema’s inability to produce comedies, unlike American cinema, which was poised to take over the screens. He regrets, for example, the lack of an equivalent for the gag. He criticizes a sketch film like Au cœur de la nuit as vulgar, contrasting it with “dreams, premonitions, mystery, humor, the splitting of personality: all themes that were so dear to us in the heroic days of Surrealism (23).” He sees the use of vaudeville in cinema as a mistake, since, according to Feydeau’s definition, to succeed it should play out in a single setting, behind closed doors, much like theater—an approach he finds inconceivable, since cinema is, in his view, the antithesis of filmed theater.

Here, it is fitting to recall his definition of metaphysical vaudeville: “a drama in which the characters meet and love at the precise point where they resemble each other across time and in all places. A reciprocal drama of personality, whose sanction is inescapable: love (24).” Sadly, the French audience, he observes, is not receptive to the humor arising from such a concept[1][2][4][5].

CONCLUSION

Vitrac very quickly understood the possibilities that cinema offered on every level. In his cinematic activity, just as throughout his theatrical output, he remains attached to a certain Surrealism of his youth, toward which his gaze is always turned. Whether in his screenplays or his film criticism, he pursues in cinema the two complementary concepts he forged in his theater: the notion of metaphysical vaudeville and the depiction of life as it is. In other words, a hyper-realism, a realism in search of a higher principle. Even if undertaken for material reasons, his cinematic work remains demanding and true to the aesthetics he helped define in the 1920s[1][2].

I’ll conclude with an anecdote that, in my view, perfectly captures both the man and the professional environment he navigated. One day, when a producer complained to Vitrac about having no good subject (some things never change, as producers still make the same complaint), “I have one,” Vitrac replied, “but I know you—you'll steal the idea and won’t pay for it.” Stung, the man protested his good faith and accepted the deal Vitrac proposed: he slipped three 100-franc bills into an envelope, which he traded for an envelope containing Vitrac’s project. Upon opening it, he read: “Jeanne d’Arc.” Outraged at having been swindled, he wanted his money back. “Well,” replied Vitrac, ever nonchalant, “isn’t it a good idea?”[1][2].

Henri BÉHAR

APPENDIX: ANNOTATED FILMOGRAPHY

Cavalerie légère (1935)
Director: Raoul Ploquin, Werner Hochbaum, Roger Vitrac co-director, based on the work by Heinz-Lorenz Lambrecht.
Dialogues: Roger Vitrac.
Cast: Mona Goya, Line Noro, Gabriel Gabria, Constant Rey.

Les Pattes de mouche (1935)
Director: Jean Grémillon. Producer: Raoul Ploquin.
Adaptation and dialogue by Roger Vitrac, based on a play by Victorien Sardou. Cast: Pierre Brasseur, Renée Saint-Cyr, Claude Maya.

L’Homme de nulle part (1936)
Director: Pierre Chenal.
Screenplay: Armand Salacrou, Pierre Chenal, Christian Stengel, based on the story by Luigi Pirandello, Feu Mathias Pascal.
Dialogues: Roger Vitrac.
Music: Jacques Ibert.
Cast: Pierre Blanchar, Robert Le Vigan, etc.
Mathias Pascal marries Romilda and has to endure his unbearable mother-in-law. When his own mother dies, he disappears for a few days. A case of mistaken identity leads people to believe he has committed suicide, and a drowned man is buried under the name Pascal. Mathias returns to his village secretly to attend his own funeral. He then runs away, wins a fortune gambling, and falls in love with Louise Paléari, who is engaged to Papiano, a man willing to use any means, even dirty tricks, to be rid of Mathias, who is now living under an assumed name. Despairing, Mathias returns home, only to find Romilda remarried and with a child. Claiming a new civil identity, he returns to Louise and marries her despite Papiano. (Adapted from Les fiches du cinéma, 2001.)

The Chess Player (1938) 90 minutes. Filmed in Berlin. Director: Jean Dréville
Screenplay and dialogues: Roger Vitrac and Jean Dréville, based on the novel by Henry Dupuy-Mazuel.
With Conrad Veidt, Françoise Rosay, Micheline Francey.

An episode from the struggle of Poland against Russia: a young patriot, Boleslas, whose head has a price on it, is hidden inside one of Baron Kempelen's automata in an attempt to smuggle him across the border. Nicolaïeff, an agent of Empress Catherine II who has uncovered the scheme, purchases the automaton and presents it to the Empress. During a chess game, the automaton accidentally gives itself away. Catherine decides he should be executed. However, Boleslas manages to escape with his fiancée Sonia, while Baron Kempelen heroically takes his place[1][2][3][4][7][6].

Alert in the Mediterranean (1938) Director: Léo Joannon
Dialogues: Roger Vitrac
With Pierre Fresnay and Nadine Vogel.

The commanders of three torpedo boats—French, German, and British—serving in an international control squadron, become friends at a dinner and agree to prevent any incidents. However, after a brawl ashore, a man is murdered. Two French sailors, one Englishman, and one German are arrested. Tensions rise among the officers. It emerges that the owner of a ship carrying a deadly gas is the murderer. He escapes, threatening to unleash the gas on a passing cargo ship. The three officers pursue him heroically, risking their own lives. “A film imbued with pacifism, but it is also a documentary on the (real) strength of our navy, which would later be scuttled at Toulon (26).”

The Mad Virgin (1938) Director: Henri Diamant-Berger.
Screenplay: Roger Vitrac, Pierre Rocher, Charles de Peyret-Chappuis, Jean Nohain, based on the play by Henry Bataille.
Dialogues by Jean Nohain and Pierre Rocher.
With Annie Ducaux, Victor Francen, Juliette Faber, Gabrielle Dorziat.

“A celebrated Parisian lawyer, married and entering middle age, meets a young woman on vacation and falls in love. The affair continues in Paris until the young woman’s mother discovers it and causes a scandal. The lawyer flees with his companion. The story ends with an unexpected and brutal tragedy. The young woman's brother catches the fugitives in Marseille, tries to kill the seducer who defends himself; the blow strikes the ‘mad virgin’ instead.” (Les fiches du cinéma 2001)

Macao, Gambling Hell (1939) 90'
Director: Jean Delannoy.
Adaptation and dialogues: Roger Vitrac, based on the novel by Maurice Dekobra.
With Erich von Stroheim, Sessue Hayakawa, Mireille Balin, etc.

Summary from the typewritten script held at the Bifi. Krull, an adventurer, claims he’s ready to deliver arms to China. He travels to Macao with his mistress, actress Mireille. There he contacts Ying Tchai, the owner of a gambling den who is actually the local mafia boss. Ying Tchai’s own daughter, Jasmine, discovers his activities and flees onto Krull’s boat with her lover, the journalist Pierre. Ying Tchai attempts to sink the boat and, believing he has killed his daughter, commits suicide.

Jean Delannoy experienced his first popular success with this film. Strong performances from two international stars, and impressive visuals (e.g., a body floating among banknotes) distinguish the film. Filming ended just as the war began; the film was banned. Erich von Stroheim’s role was dubbed by Pierre Renoir and the film was finally released in 1942, but since Liberation only the first version is shown in cinemas. During a TV presentation (FR 3) in 1982, a Libération critic, noting Vitrac’s adaptation and dialogues, commented: “This major Surrealist influence [...] is surely not unrelated to the international cross-currents that keep upending the plot (27).”

Thieves’ Paradise Director: L. C. Marsoudet
Supervision: Léo Jouannon
Dialogues by Roger Vitrac, based on the film by Gerald A. Foster.
With Roland Toutain, Fernand Charpin, Paulette Dubost, Julien Carette, etc.

Two artists in love wind up forced to commit a robbery, disguised as acrobats. This Marseilles comedy begins in a traveling fairground and ends in a wild farce at the Théâtre de la Gaîté.

Sixth Floor (1940) Director: Maurice Cloche
Screenplay and dialogues: Roger Vitrac, based on a work by Alfred Gehri.
With Florelle, Janine Darcey, Pierre Brasseur, Julien Carette, Pierre Larquey.

“On the sixth floor live ordinary, friendly people. A handsome young man rents the painting studio and stirs up trouble in the hallway. He seduces Edwige, a sick young woman. She becomes pregnant; her father knows nothing, but the neighbors do and are outraged at the seducer, who also has a mistress in the building. The young man would marry her if obliged, but she prefers the good young man who has always loved her and dismisses the sinister character, to everyone’s satisfaction.” (Les fiches du cinéma 2001)

Sacred Fire (1941) Director: Maurice Cloche
Adaptation and dialogues: Roger Vitrac.
With Viviane Romance.

The career of Mme Viviane Romance, showing the difficulties and indignities she endured to become a star. The script is a bit disjointed but full of good intentions. Backstage milieu; awkward dialogue. (Les fiches du cinéma 2001)
“The rise of a young woman in the world of musical theater and her love for a boxer. A series of sentimental clichés. As the film begins with its ending, there is no suspense. But it’s lively and ultimately appealing.” (Jean Tulard)

The Murderer Is Afraid at Night (1942) 100'
Director: Jean Delannoy, based on the novel by Pierre Véry.
Dialogues: Roger Vitrac.
With Mireille Balin, Jean Chevrier, Jules Berry.

“A burglar, Olivier, decides to retire in the south of France and befriends a laborer whose sister catches his eye. But he is forced to kill a corrupt antique dealer. Remorse and anxiety ensue. All ends well. A clever script by Pierre Véry is not enough to save this film, shot in difficult circumstances that explain flaws in the direction.” (Jean Tulard)

The Dead No Longer Answers (1943) or The Dead No Longer Receives. 90’
Director: Jean Taride.
Screenplay: René Jolivet, Roger Vitrac
Dialogues: Roger Vitrac.
Cinematography: Fred Langenfeld
With: Raymond Aimos, Jules Berry, Roger Caccia, Marcel Dieudonné, Thérèse Dorny, Lucienne Galopaud, Jacqueline Gauthier, Gérard Landry, Georges Lannes, Jacques Louvigny, Janine Merrey, Félix Oudart, Simone Paris, Simone Signoret, Madeleine Suffel, Jacques Tarride

A quarrel over Jérôme Armandy’s inheritance. But is he really dead?
A typical crime film of the Occupation period. (J. T.)

Bethsabée (1947) Director: Léonide Moguy, screenplay by L. Moguy and Jacques Rémy from the novel by Pierre Benoit.
Dialogues: Roger Vitrac.

At a French outpost in Morocco, held by colonial cavalry, arrives Arabella (Danielle Darrieux), fiancée to Captain Dubreuil (Georges Marshall). She claims to be divorced, but has a troubled past. An officer, Sommerville (Paul Meurisse), knows her—he was her lover. Sent on a mission in Dubreuil’s place by the colonel, who is charmed by Arabella, Sommerville is fatally wounded. Evelyne, the colonel’s daughter and Sommerville’s lover, who discovers the truth, speaks out. Dubreuil, who asked to replace Sommerville, prepares to leave, refusing to listen to Arabella. Thanks to the colonel’s intervention, the couple reconciles. Sommerville dies in an ambush. Distraught, Evelyne, in a fit of madness, wounds Arabella, who dies in the arms of her beloved.

The notice in the French Cinematographic Index notes: “good dialogue accompanies the images,” while the Figaro reviewer, on the film’s release, wrote: “I fear that Roger Vitrac, who truly possesses the gift for dialogue, let himself drift toward popular fiction and easy poetry. His characters constantly repeat: ‘Life is unfair. It’s too unfair’. Is this really what he wanted? (28)”

If That’s What You Want (1948) Director: Jacques Daniel-Norman
Adaptation: Jean Manse, Roger Vitrac, Jacques Daniel-Norman
Screenplay: Pierre Benard, Robert Danger
With Fernandel
Release: September 1, 1948, Paris.

Viala and his wife sell funeral wreaths in Cassis. Viala shares a lottery ticket with his friend Ginette. When the ticket wins, he claims to have split it with Gonfaron, an employee at the auction house, who is then asked to play the part of a fake millionaire and later Ginette's mock lover. Viala, who had planned a getaway to Aix with Ginette, is forced to go there with his wife and Gonfaron. Ginette, taken with Gonfaron, marries him. “If that’s what you want...” replies the good-natured Gonfaron.

• Film titles, technical details, and plot summaries are translated and formatted for clarity.
• Where possible, casting, crew, and technical credits are preserved as in the original.
• All section and film descriptions are cohesive with the style and structure requested.
• Information about "Le Joueur d'échecs" is cross-verified and consistent with filmographic sources[1][2][4][6][7].

1. Posthumous publication in Dés-Lyre, Gallimard, 1964, introduction by Henri Béhar, p. 146.
2. Roger Vitrac, “Animated Photographs,” Aventure, no. 2, December 1921, pp. 28–29.
3. See the text in the “Documents” section of my essay, Vitrac, Théâtre ouvert sur le rêve, Brussels, Labor, Lausanne, L’Âge d’homme, pp. 177–179.
4. Letter to Jean Puyaubert, from Berlin, 6 November 1935. In Roger Vitrac, Lettres à Jean Puyaubert, presented by A. & O. Virmaux, Rougerie, 1991, p. 67.
5. Letter to Jean Puyaubert, 12 February 1945, ibid., p. 77.
6. Manuscript kindly provided by Mrs. A. Guérin.
7. Provided by Mr. J. Puyaubert; since published by A. & O. Virmaux in Histoires littéraires, no. 12, December 2002, pp. 12–21.
8. Cf. collection of press clippings at the Rondel archives, R sup. 2442.
9. Eric Le Roy, L’Homme de nulle part de Pierre Chenal, master’s thesis (DEA), Université Paris III, 1987, pp. 34–35. Chenal also discusses Vitrac’s alcoholism and specifies that he had a trip to Italy paid for to immerse himself in the necessary atmosphere for his work.
10. Henri Langlois, film review in Cinématographe, March 1936.
11. Michel Mardore, “Un anarchiste glouton,” Le Nouvel Observateur, 27 January 1984.
12. Jacques Siclier, “Pierre Chenal, autour d’un film,” Le Monde, 31 January 1984.
13. Jean Dreville, Quarante ans de cinéma.
14. Nino Frank: “Roger Vitrac has made a film about the Cyclades,” Pour vous, 28 May 1931.
15. Alain Virmaux, “Vitrac sur les sentiers du Paris surréaliste,” Histoires littéraires, no. 12, 2002, p. 13.
16. In an article from L’Intransigeant (17 March 1931), partially reproduced in my essay, Vitrac, Théâtre ouvert sur le rêve, Brussels, Labor, Lausanne, L’Âge d’homme, p. 191, he discusses the failure of the “Congrès international pour la détermination des directives et la défense de l’esprit moderne,” known as the Congrès de Paris, whose preparatory meetings were held at the Café Certa in the Passage de l’Opéra.
17. See: Roger Vitrac, “Current Events in Greek Theatre,” Le Voyage en Grèce, no. 7, Summer 1937, pp. 15–17.
18. Roger Vitrac, Re-tour de manivelle, edition prepared by Jean-Pierre Han, Rougerie, 1976, 104 p.
19. Roger Vitrac, “Laughing in His Beard,” L’Écran français, Year 4, no. 50, 12 June 1946.
20. L’Écran français, Year 4, no. 27, 2 January 1946.
21. L’Écran français, Year 4, no. 28, 9 January 1946.
22. Roger Vitrac, “À propos de Bethsabée,” cited in Vitrac, Théâtre ouvert sur le rêve, p. 196.
23. L’Écran français, Year 4, no. 48, 29 May 1946, Re-tour de manivelle, p. 55.
24. Roger Vitrac, “Le voyage oublié,” Les Feuilles libres, January 1938.
25. Summary based on Les fiches du cinéma 2001 and Jean Tulard’s guide. The BIFI holds, in its “Cahiers jaunes” series, two typescripts relating to this film: the screenplay (Cjo 790 B 106) and the technical breakdown with variants (Cjo 791 B 106), but neither mentions Roger Vitrac, who likely contributed only the dialogue.
26. Jean Tulard in his Guide du cinéma, Laffont/Bouquins.
27. Gérard Lefort, “Tintin à Macao,” Libération, 10 July 1982.
28. Louis Chavet, “Bethsabée,” Le Figaro, 26 November 1947.