To attempt to define the exact meaning of realism would be a useless excercise, one that would be most likely bound to fail. Countless critics and historians have offered their own interpretations over the years, providing valuable insights into the subject, but succeeding only in offering partial explanations of the concept. Through this ‘extreme relativity of the concept of realism’[1], any effort to develop a universal definition of realism becomes trivial and secondary to the more interesting study of the various branches that a desire for capturing reality can engender in art and, specifically here, in cinema.

Noel Carroll stated in From Real to Reel: Entangled in Nonfiction Film ‘given this, it is easy to see that there is no single film realism - no transhistorical style of realism in film. Rather there are several types of realism’[2]. From this perspective, realism can be achieved through certain technical means, illustrated for instance by Andre Bazin’s belief in the use of deep focus as a method to reinforce the impression of reality (as seen in Welles’ Citizen Kane (1941) -a film which could easily be considered non-realistic by many standards- or in Renoir’s La Regle du Jeu (1939)), or it can be attained via perceptual and aspectual methods and even simply through purity of intent or social conscisousness. Given the amount of possibilities of realistic methods and archetypes, the realistic film par excellence most likely does not exist, at least not in the shape of a film that would contain realism as described and understood by most standard conventions[3]. Each film that hopes to achieve realism is made up of a ratio of non-realist to realist content and form and it therefore becomes a question of how much of each is contained in each film. Impressionists and expressionists alike have proclaimed a desire to adhere to some form of reality and some of the films that have come out of these movements cannot be automatically dismissed as non-realists, unless one has made a decision that, for example, a ratio of 49% realism to 51% non-realism automatically implies a non-realist film. And even in such as case, the question remains as to what this 49% is made of exactly.

This confusion surrounding realism in film can be illustrated through the work of Robert Bresson, the French director who in a career lasting fifty years directed 14 films only. Are Bresson’s films realistic or are they not? Much has been said about his unusual style, the coldness and lack of emotions in his characters, his dark and pessimistic subject matter, but little has been said about the realism that he brought to his films. And when the topic has in fact been discussed, it has been done with a certain degree of ambiguity and unease. The most likely reason for this is that Bresson’s films do not fit the standard idea and convention of realism. It does not necessarily adhere to what we have come to expect when watching reality on screen. Yet, is it possible that, in spite of appearances, Bresson had mastered the purest form of realism yet, something that I will call Absolute Realism?

By his own admittance, Bresson never attempted to make realistic films (‘I wish and make myself as realistic as possible, using only raw material taken from real life. But I aim at a final realism which is not realism’[4]). His aim was to reach a certain truth, a state existing beyond the simply visible and accessible. But in the process of aiming for this truth, Bresson necessarily proclaimed an interest in the real. This desire for reality did not constitute an end in itself, only the means by which to achieve this greater goal of truth.

Bresson was a deeply religious man. His films are permeated with religious undertones, theological references and sacred iconography. This sacredness seems obvious enough in films like Les Anges du Peche (1943) or Le Journal d’un Cure de Campagne (1951; hereafter Le Journal) but it also appears in more discreet, yet no less intense, ways in Pickpocket (1959) or Un Condamne a Mort s’est Echape (1956; hereafter Un Condamne). The theme of this last two is not one that on the surface can be directly associated with the sacred since the subject matter is not religious in itself and few direct references are in fact made to religion or the holy. Since in effect Bresson is not interested in teaching us about religion, or even in sharing with us his own personal beliefs about the matter, the content of his films becomes a method, an excuse, for something else to pass through. Every single gesture, every routine, dialogue or action becomes a portal for something larger than religion to appear. What Bresson aims to achieve through his films is to open a doorway to the spiritual, an entrance through which Grace, or perhaps simply spiritual freedom, can enter.

Ascetics seem to play an important role in the films of Bresson. The priest in Le Journal survives on only bread and wine, thereby reinforcing the religious connotation of his ‘voyage’ towards an ultimate and inescapable culmination. Michel in Pickpocket lives in a bare, austere flat bordering on poverty, and Mouchette herself has never known anything other than poverty. Pure actions, thoughts and habits are essential for these characters to save themselves. One must free oneself from the chains that have been placed upon us since our birth through an ascetic that will enable us to reach our ultimate destination. Only through this negation of earthly pleasures and of materialism can one achieve the required state of weightlessness that is the necessary element in reaching Grace. This weightlessness, discussed by Simone Weil in La Pesenteur et la Grace, is consistent with the idea of creating a void to allow for the Absolute to enter. Bresson’s characters reach Grace through ways that may appear different on the surface, but all have in common the removal, through suffering, of unnecessary material weight as described by Susan Sontag when she states that ‘the true fight against oneself is against one’s heaviness, one’s gravity’[5].

Susan Sontag, Andre Bazin and Paul Schrader, and others undoubtedly, have all referred to Bresson’s Jansenism as a principle source of his spirituality. There is little doubt that most of his films have a shared foundation, that of predestination vs. free will, of one’s ability to free oneself from the burdens one bears, and thus, ultimately, to find one’s self. Jansenism does place quite a lot of emphasis on fate, which tends to automatically leave very little room, if any, to free will. Most of Bresson’s characters, Fontaine in Un Condamne, Michel in Pickpocket or even Yvon in L’argent (1983) all seem to be under the influence of events that are outside of their control. One only needs to notice the full title of Un Condamne a Mort s’est Echappe: le Vent Souffle ou il Veut[6] to understand that, on the surface, for a (so-called) Jansenist such as Bresson, an existentialist free will has little place in our lives. Susan Sontag has stated that ‘all of Bresson’s films have a common theme: ‘the meaning of confinement and liberty’[7]. Certainly, his films are very much about seeking freedom from our bodies, bodies that constrain and restrict us in an earthly way, bodies that are subjected, poisoned and influenced by the diseases of society. Deterministic and fatalistic, Bresson’s characters have little to hope for in life except to reach Grace and the salvation it brings. Yet, it would be misleading to interpret this determinism (if one can truly talk of determinism in the context of Bresson) as necessarily pessimistic since Grace represents the ultimate, the absolute state to be reached, and thus, a positive deliverance from a society morally corrupt. Bresson does offer a way out, a dialectical escape from negativity. While the subject matters of the films may leave one with a sense of gloom upon their initial viewing, the feeling of hope and joy that underlies most of his work should more than compensate for it, as long as one is able to reach and see beyond the initial layer of ‘surface’ negativity. For instance, suicide, which occurs in several of the films, should not be looked upon as a cowardly act that ends a life but rather as an acceptable means of deliverance that enables one to reach a state of betterment. Upon watching Mouchette, we are left with no choice but to accept Mouchette’s decision to end her life as the only logical step, one that provides us with a feeling of understanding and almost complicity.

This metaphor of the body as a prison is accentuated and rendered even more so apparent in Un Condamne, Pickpocket and Le Proces de Jeanne D’Arc (1962; hereafter Le Proces), three films that are usually referred to as the ‘Prison Cycle’ since most of the action (except for Pickpocket where it only occurs at the end) literally does take place in jail. In the words of Paul Schrader ‘On the theological level, the prison metaphor is linked to the fundamental body/soul dichotomy’[8]. Jeanne leaves her prison through death, Fontaine by literally escaping and Michel by going to jail. But each one of these journeys has taken the characters closer to freedom and to a state of Grace.

However, the question remains as to how Bresson’s characters manage their need to seek freedom with the fact that predestination looms over them and controls their life. Are they responsible for some of their actions within a limited environment? Can they have some impact on their pre-destination? Where is the free will in Bresson’s work? Does it exist? These are questions often associated with the debate on predestination, but they become quite apparent in Bresson’s work, especially in the context of Jansenism. Jansenism, at its core, states that man is born bad and that only a few will be saved, though not necessarily through their own acts but thanks to the will of God. This completely rules out the possibility of influencing one’s chances to be saved. Bresson’s approach is therefore not fully Jansenist since he seems to offer, via most of his characters, a ‘Rousseaunian’ view of the world that assumes that man is born good (especially as seen in Yvon, a seemingly good man who becomes a killer after being the victim of evil on the part of others), becomes corrupted by society, and still possesses the means to influence his destiny by saving himself. And determinism, in a Calvinist sense, also implies that we are already destined to Heaven or Hell at birth, automatically rendering any actions in life futile and not morally condemnable. Yet, while Bresson does excuse some of the actions of his characters, actions that for an existentialist would have necessarily demonstrated choice and the act of free will, he lets us know that there is hope for salvation if one acts appropriately. Therefore, calling Bresson a Jansenist is to not fully understand the paradox and ambiguity that lie at the heart of his films. Schrader’s explanation for this dichotomy is one that seems to equate the views of Jansen with that of Calvin or Augustine in regards to predestinarianism. Schrader explains that ‘man becomes free by choosing the predetermined will of God. The only tension is whether or not she (Jeanne D’Arc) will choose her predestined fate’[9]. So for Schrader, there is no doubt that Bresson’s work offers little in terms of existentialism and instead draws exclusively on a predeterministic view of the world, leaving his character’s actions at the mercy of only fate. Any semblance of free will is in fact limited to a set of actions that are predetermined and the only choice any character has in substantially impacting his or her life is to make sure that they make the right choice, that is, by choosing to save themselves.

Yet, it is surely not coincidental that both Une Femme Douce (1969; hereafter Une Femme) and Quatre Nuits d’Un Reveur (1971; hereafter Quatre Nuits) are adaptations of writings by Dostoyevski, a man whose ideology and anthropocentrism are famously ambivalent and paradoxical. Towards his later years, Dostoyevski’s philosophy became a battlefield between a growing sense of spirituality and the existentialist views that had characterized some of his early work, especially Notes from the Underground (1858), a work which for many classified the author as the true father of Existentialism. At the core of Dostoyevski’s philosophy, man is the result of two conflicting natures, one that is selfish and materialistic and the other spiritual. These two opposing forces result in good and evil being present in every man, with good dominating only if spirituality is allowed to supersede. As with Bresson’s characters, Dostoyevki’s must go through suffering in order to reach salvation. Raskolnikov in Crime and Punishment is in some ways no different than Yvon in L’argent or Michel (Michel seemed to have had a particular appetite for punishment) in Pickpocket who exclaims, in the last scene of the film, upon having reached what the viewer can only deduct is a higher state of being, ‘oh Jeanne, to reach you, what a strange path I had to take!’ Only suffering and an ascetic lifestyle can create the necessary conditions, the Petri dish if you will, for Grace to enter. Dostoyevski believed this firmly, yet he also believed in man’s right to free will. It is said that it is a paradox that never ceased to trouble him, and actually grew in intensity in his later years.

In addition, most of Bresson’s characters tend to exist in solitude, fighting individualistic fights against a system that has let them down. There is no recourse to the collective and very little relying upon the goodness of others (a notable exception being Fontaine trusting some of his fellow inmates). One can even at time detect traces of regret in some of the characters, as when Michel says, upon recollecting how his career as a thief started that day at the races, ‘I should have left then’. He even perseveres in learning his craft, showing a strong devotion and dedication to the art of thievery. The argument that this purposefully learning of a vocation is justifiably a mark of predestination in the context of it leading to Grace is a denial of the existence of a decision making process, based on free will and capable of regrets. Regrets are the luxury of a free and willing mind.

In his piece on Bresson, Bazin stated on the one hand ‘Nothing purely accidental could happen to these people’[10] and only paragraphs later added ‘Events do indeed follow one another according to a necessary order, yet within a framework of accidental happenings’[11]. Furthermore, Susan Sontag declared about Bresson’s films ‘nothing happens by chance; there are no alternatives, no fantasy’[12]. Now if one contrasts this with Bresson’s own comment, ‘Chance controls our lives three times out of four’[13], one quickly realizes how easily Bresson’s intentions, and films, may have been misinterpreted. Indeed, unlike what Schrader may have implied, free will does play a prominent role in Bresson’s philosophy. While he strongly believed in chance, what interested him most was the mystery of existence. To attempt to understand, while knowing that full knowledge is unattainable, the various elements that make a life, the conflict of forces that reside and collide in human beings, the strange and sometimes oblique paths that one must take to reach fulfillment. And during our journeys towards unraveling the mysteries of our lives, we must constantly face the battling and sometimes, the merging of free will with chance and predestination. Bresson did not have all the answers, as some critics would like to think, only many questions, and he set out to ask them in a very profound and deliberate way. ‘The most interesting thing in life is curiosity’[14] he said. His films are a discovery of the unknown, of the invisible, as life is.

Ultimately, it is clear that, from a narrative perspective, all characters in Bresson’s films, whether out of their own free will, in a predestined fashion or through a combination of both, evolve towards a higher state of being. The journey towards the Absolute, towards the Transcendent as Schrader calls it, is not a passive experience for the viewer. Only through complete involvement on the part of the audience can the film become effective, that is, enabling us to partake in the evolution of the characters towards the ultimate conclusion. A film that places all emphasis on content would be hard pressed to communicate effectively the desired spirituality. However well made, the film would become an exercise in psychological realism, providing us with a reflection of someone’s inner traumas and states of mind, a type of biased expressionistic account of what this person may be experiencing. In such a film, the spirituality is described to us, it is shown on the screen through the actions of the characters. It becomes an attempt at communicating the Absolute to us directly through the actors and the plot, thereby automatically assuming a level of superficiality, of taintedness, since it is not directly experienced by us. As Bazin stated towards most screen ‘images’:

‘They proceed from the commonsense supposition that a necessary and unambiguous causal relationship exists between feelings and their outward manifestations. They postulate that all is in the consciousness and that this consciousness can be known’.[15]
Which is of course not an accurate representation of reality even though many psychologically and plot oriented films attempt to prove to the contrary. Thus, the spiritual cannot be communicated effectively through mere emphasis on the content. Only the application of a formalist stylization to the content can create the necessary conditions that will enable spirituality to transcend the image. And form does indeed play a very important role in Bresson’s films. It is through form that he is able to convey his message, to involve us in the journey of his characters. And it is through form that the spiritual, the invisible is allowed to enter. To quote Susan Sontag, ‘all art tends toward the formal, toward a completeness that must be formal rather than substantive. In great art, it is form that is ultimately sovereign’.[16] For Bresson, the content, while crucial in its own merit, becomes an excuse for the form to take over. We already know that Fontaine will escape from prison, and the voice over in Pickpocket speaks in retrospect, thereby leaving little doubt as to how the film will end. The plot, what little there is of it, becomes secondary and only serves to support the message already enforced by the style. In fact, one could say that the style is the film and the film is the style. ‘This displacement of “content” onto “form”’[17] helps move the emphasis away from the abstract, away from an individualistic illusion of reality towards a deeper interpretation that is more universal. A predominance of content over form can easily result in Naïve Realism, one that places focus on what is perceived through the senses. But the spiritual must go deeper than this layer of senses, deeper than the psychological coating that content can only reveal. It must peel off these layers to reach a core essence, akin to a type of Absolute Realism whereby human knowledge, which is highly fragmentary and partial, only becomes true knowledge in the context of an eternal consciousness or Absolute Spirit.

On the surface, there is much about Bresson’s films that does not seem real, as defined by what we have come to expect from reality on screen over the years through ‘mainstream’ cinema and conventions. The non-acting of his ‘models’, the exaggeration of sounds, the elliptical nature of the narratives (in the span of two shots, Michel went to London, stayed there for 2 years and came back, wearing the same outfit), the simplification of events and characters matched only in intensity by a sometimes disturbing attention to details, all ‘work against conventional psychology’.[18] But, as demonstrated by Bazin’s ambivalence in his description of Le Journal, one’s reaction to Bresson’s style is not of immediate dismissal of any realistic influences or consequences. The viewer’s probable incredulity when confronted with Fontaine’s obvious lack of acting in Un Condamne is compensated by a clear understanding and acceptance that the detailed depiction of Fontaine’s routines in jail are potentially more realistic than anything ever seen on film. The end result for the viewer may be one of scepticism and ambivalence, but not of denial against having experienced a possible reality.

‘Transcendental style stylizes reality by eliminating (or nearly) those elements, which are primarily expressive of human experience, thereby robbing the conventional interpretations of reality of their relevance and power.’[19]
By robbing the conventional interpretations of reality from his films, Bresson is able to go deeper, towards the inner workings of a reality that is truer than most. In this reality, actors are not called actors they are called models (and they tend to be non-professionals). They surprise themselves by breaking free of their acting constraints and revealing their innermost self to a director who will accept no less. Bresson did not set out to invent a new technique for the sake of form. He simply could not accept a reality based on someone trying to play someone else, however well they may think they can impersonate that role. For Bresson, an actor who acts belongs to the stage, a director who deals with actors is in fact a Metteur en Scene and thus also belongs to the stage, and since the stage has no place in cinema, anything that is reminiscent of theatre must be removed. The actor cannot escape his superficiality, his self-consciousness, his role-playing. No matter what, it remains an act.[20]

Not to shoot a film in order to illustrate a thesis, or to display men and women confined to their external aspect, but to discover the matter they are made of. To attain that “heart of the heart” which does not let itself be caught either by poetry, or by philosophy, or by drama.[21]

Behind his seemingly passive appearance, the model will expose his purest self, an essence that cannot be faked or tarnished, an apparent display of falsity to reveal the truth that lies buried deep within. This ‘way of recovering the automatism of real life’[22] is the result of a long and tedious process whereby the models are subjected to an average of three months of ‘exercises’ prior to shooting (and sometimes 40 or 50 takes during shooting if necessary). During this time, repetition and routine become instrumental in unleashing the mechanical aspect that will be key to the models revealing their true selves. It is difficult not to notice that behind Claude Laydu’s (who played the priest of Ambricourt in Le Journal) coldness lies the most appropriate, the most perfect spirituality and conflict that one could have hoped for for such a role. His soul is laid bare in front of us, his torments for us to share. We are not reacting to a psychological condition being acted to us, but to a true essentiality, which the removal of the traditional actor’s bias and influence has allowed to uncover.

In Bresson’s reality, the words and dialogues coming from the models draw from this philosophy of ‘mechanics’, and become the means by which the true nature of the emotions is communicated to us. Monotonous and cold on the surface, these words do not originate in the mouth. They come from somewhere else, from that hidden place which the workings of Bresson’s discipline have served to expose. But these words, these dialogs have been repeated tediously hundreds of times before and while they may take on the appearance of simply spoken lines, they are in fact the result of a perfectionistic attention to details, an automatism aimed at removing the intentional, the self-control and the self-conscious. Bazin stated in the context of Bresson’s adaptation of Bernanos’ novel into Le Journal, ‘thus a good deal of excellent dramatic dialogue is thrown away because of the flat monotone in which the director insists that it be delivered’.[23] But it seems that Bazin is missing the point here. Bresson is surely not interested in drama, anymore than he is interested in plot. These are artificial devices that are acceptable in theatre or literature, but that can only bring a level of dishonesty and fakeness to cinema. The point is to remove any dramatic connotations and intonations until, one by one, layers of superficiality are peeled off and removed, revealing the core essence of reality, untarnished, immaculate and pure. The words, automatic and unself-conscious, become much more than remembered lines. They become one with the model. They are the model. ‘What our eyes and ears require is not the realistic persona but the real person.’[24]

Sound, of which words can be considered one aspect[25], is perhaps the most important element of Bresson’s reality. There is a predominance of sound over image in all of Bresson’s films. The image, while important, only seems to exist at times to provide support for the sound. It is as if it needs to obtain permission from the sound to be, while at the same time co-existing with it beautifully. An ex-painter himself, Bresson believed that ‘cinema resembles music so much more than it does painting’.[26] Every single sound in a Bresson film takes on a special dimension, a life of its own. But these sounds need not come from important occurrences on the screen or even appear on the screen at all. The trivial or the invisible, both can create marvelous sounds in reality, and these will often catch our attention and arouse our curiosity. Nor do they necessarily need to be synchronized with the ‘action’ on film. They live of their own merit, owing nothing to the visual. Un Condamne is full of powerful sounds of metal rattling, of whistles, of voices, of gunshots, of water flowing somewhere, of trains, all invisible to the eye. Yet they seem more prominent in our mind that the image in front of us. And as in reality, the origin of many of these sounds is never revealed to us. To reveal all would only decrease the mystery of existence, a mystery we constantly face in our daily lives.

Daniel Couteau, who was Bresson’s sound specialist for many years, has said that, because we all make a slightly different sound when we walk, Bresson insisted that the sound of each character’s walking in his films should also be different. While many of the sounds were taken during shooting, most were in fact worked on again during post- production, and for as long as was needed (sounds were often re-recorded over thirty times) to capture their true essence. Couteau also mentioned that during the shooting of Lancelot du Lac (1974; hereafter Lancelot), the camera was often positioned next to the heads of horses. Bresson was insistent that at that point in the film, one hears exactly what one would hear when standing next to the head of a horse, a sound consequently created from the mixing of chewing and echo.

‘It is sound that provides perspective’[27] Bresson said, and nowhere is this more visible again than in Un Condamne where the sounds are balanced and counterpointed, not only by the image, but also by silence, thereby adding to their intensity and significance. By using silence with care and precision, Bresson impresses a deeper meaning on the sound that precedes or follows it. The ‘invisible’ sound of a machine gun becomes so much more powerful and affecting when in counterpoint with the silence of Fontaine’s cell. However, when heard in conjunction with other sounds, it loses most of its worth and softens the impact on the viewer. It is to silence that sound owes its existence and Bresson had mastered the art of silence, perhaps owing to his early years while working for Rene Clair.

Bresson’s reality evolved over the years. Sound became more and more important, the images less seemingly artistic and aesthetically beautiful, the subject matters a bit ‘darker’, and music used much more sporadically, almost to the point of disappearing completely. This stemmed from a desire to remove the artificial meaning that the use of music can impress on an image. While the image rarely stands alone in a Bresson film[28], it nevertheless should be able to exist separately from music and its meaning, its reality, must not be influenced by it. Unlike sound, which adds depth and dimension to an image, music flattens it, renders it superficial and devoid of significance.
Yet, in a Bresson film, the image itself can also be very deceptive. Bresson believed that our sense of hearing is much more powerful and reliable than our sense of seeing. Therefore, to attempt to capture reality with an image, or rather to claim that reality can be captured through the camera reflects a misunderstanding of life’s mystery, of the unreliability of the eye (and of the camera), and of the predominance of unanswered questions that we as human beings often face in our daily lives. It is not the camera’s goal to attempt to answer everything. The camera, to be realistic, must preserve the invisible, the mysterious and the unknown. It must respect that we often do not know the causes of events before their symptoms. Depth of field, for example, seen by people like Bazin as a realistic method, is actually deemed unrealistic for Bresson, since it attempts to reveal everything, too much too quickly, claiming that the true essence of reality can be captured through an image. Also, montage was for him an acceptable means of conveying reality since it brought life to images by emphasizing their relationship. However, to preserve the real, the montage had to be seamless as to not fragment reality and place too much importance on one specific image over the others.

The realism of Bresson was fairly paradoxical and contradictory at times. In spite of the obvious search for the real, Bresson was more interested in the true than in the real, which, for him, were two different things[29]. Because reality can be so fickle, because it is very individualistic and personal, it can only truly exist as an interpretation of reality, a version that has been subjected to various forces and influences, regardless of the purity of the intentions. By taking away these influences as much as possible from his films, Bresson removed the individualistic, the subjective and the interpretative. In his quest to uncover the true, he consequently exposed a reality free of idiosyncrasies and characteristics peculiar to a specific individual or group. In a process like this one, the removal of such uniqueness and the absence of connections to what we have come to expect can be disconcerting, prompting one to reject such a depiction of reality and to consider it implausible. Yet, this disconnection stems more from a society - a society from which Bresson felt increasingly alienated – where spirituality and a thirst for the mysterious and invisible have become less important than the obvious and the superficial, than false and instant gratification, than it does from the uniqueness of Bresson’s style. In such a society, reality can only become more individualistic, leaving little room for a more universal and selfless answer, an absolute realism to which we had never been so close (and might never be again) thanks to the films of Robert Bresson.

Copyright © Eric Mahleb 2004

[1] Roman Jacobson, ‘On Realism in Art’, in Ladislav Matejka & Krystyna Pomorska (eds), Readings in Russian Poetics: Formalist and Structuralist Views (The MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1971), pp. 42.

[2] Noel, Carroll, ‘From Real to Reel: Entangled in Nonfiction Film’, in Theorizing the Moving Image (Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 243-244.

[3] These conventions tend to be controlled by frames of references - cognitive psychologists refer to them as mindsets - which are defined by our conscious mind to help us see the world in a clearer and more organized way. However, in the process of assigning these frames of references, our conscious minds rob us of true reality by allowing us to perceive only a distilled version

[4] Robert Bresson (ed), Notes on Cinematography (Editions Gallimard, 1975)

[5] Susan Sontag (ed), ‘Spiritual Style in the Films of Robert Bresson’, in Against Interpretation (New York: Farrar Straus & Giroux, 1966), p.189

[6] The Wind Bloweth where it Listeth

[7] Susan Sontag, ‘Spiritual Style in the Films of Robert Bresson’, in Against Interpretation (New York: Farrar Straus & Giroux, 1966), p.186.

[8] Paul Schrader (ed), Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer (Da Capo Press, 1972), p.88

[9] Paul Schrader (ed), Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer (Da Capo Press, 1972), p.91

[10] Andre Bazin (ed), ‘Le Journal d’Un Cure de Campagne and the Stylistics of Robert Bresson’ in What is Cinema? Volume I (London: University of California Press, Ltd., 1967), p.134

[11] Bazin, 1967, p.134

[12] Sontag, 1966, p.194

[13] Michel Ciment, ‘Interview with Robert Bresson’, Positif no. 430, December 1996, p.99

[14] Michel Ciment, ‘Interview with Robert Bresson’, Positif no. 430, December 1996, p.97

[15] Andre Bazin (ed), ‘In Defense of Mixed Cinema’ in What is Cinema? Volume I (London: University of California Press, Ltd., 1967), p.62

[16] Susan Sontag, ‘Godard’s Vivre Sa Vie’, in Against Interpretation (New York: Farrar Straus & Giroux, 1966), p.198.

[17] Keith Reader (ed), Robert Bresson (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000), p.3

[18] Reader, 2000, p.3

[19] Schrader, 1972, p.11

[20] Bresson even refused to ‘hire’ a donkey for Au Hazard, Baltazard (1966) because the donkey had been trained

[21] Bresson, 1975, pp.36-37

[22] Bresson, 1975, pp.59-60

[23] Andre Bazin (ed), ‘Le Journal d’Un Cure de Campagne and the Stylistics of Robert Bresson’ in What is Cinema? Volume I (London: University of California Press, Ltd., 1967), p.129

[24] Bresson, 1975, p.99

[25] ‘Voices heard as a sound create a 3rd dimension to the screen’. Michel Ciment, ‘Interview with Robert Bresson’, Positif no. 430, December 1996, p.94

[26] Pierre Gauge, ‘Interview with Robert Bresson from 1955’, Cahiers du Cinema no. 543, February 2000, p.7

[27] Michel Ciment, ‘Interview with Robert Bresson’, Positif no. 430, December 1996, p.94

[28] “If a picture carries too much, it can not follow the previous one” from Michel Ciment, ‘Interview with Robert Bresson’, Positif no. 430, December 1996, p.99

[29] Pierre Gauge, ‘Interview with Robert Bresson from 1955’, Cahiers du Cinema no. 543, February 2000, p.8

Bibliography

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Bazin Andre (ed), ‘In Defense of Mixed Cinema’, What is Cinema? Volume I (London: University of California Press, Ltd., 1967)

Bresson Robert (ed), Notes on Cinematography (Editions Gallimard, 1975)

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Cuneen Joseph, ‘Filmmaker’s realism suggested the spiritual’, National Catholic Reporter, February 25, 2000

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Schrader Paul (ed), Transcendental Style in Film: Ozu, Bresson, Dreyer (Da Capo Press, 1972)

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Zenner, M.C, Bresson: Destinies Making Themselves in a Work of Hands, Senses of Cinema, 1999 (http://www.sensesofcinema.com/contents/00/1/bresson.html)

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