ArtBohemia

The mystery here is: how does Pablo do it? Clouzot and cameraman Claude Renoir investigate by simply placing the camera behind a transparent canvas in order to watch the master at work. It's a thrilling and almost totally successful experiment, enhanced by lovely music from Georges Auric (there's no commentary) and graced with an extrovert performance from the 75-year-old painter himself.

THE MYSTERY OF PICASSO (LE MYST?RE PICASSO)
Director: Henri-Georges Clouzot
Cast (as himself): Pablo Picasso
(Filmsonor S.A./Lopert, 1956) Rated: Not rated
Release date: 14 January 2003 (Milestone/Image Entertainment)

Being Pablo Picasso
One would die to know what was on Rimbaud's mind when he wrote 'The Drunken Boat,' or on Mozart's when composed his symphony, 'Jupiter.' We'd love to know that secret process guiding the creator through this perilous adventure. Thankfully, what is impossible to know for poetry and music is not the case in painting. To know what's going through a painter's mind, one just needs to look at his hands. Here's what the painter's experiencing.
— Henri-Georges Clouzot, The Mystery of Picasso.
Henri-Georges Clouzot's 1956 film, The Mystery of Picasso (Le Myst?re Picasso), sets out some lofty goals for itself. In only 75 minutes, Clouzot seeks to uncover nothing less than the "mystery," not merely of Picasso's process of painting, but of artistic production itself. We're talking metaphysical meta-projects here, the search for the core truth of capital-A "Art."
To this end, the film documents the production of 20 original works by Picasso. Some, the earlier works in particular, are rendered primarily in black ink, with a splash of color here or there; others, certainly the final ones, explore a wide range of colors. All have that post-Picasso "Picasso" feel about them. You know, the almost regimented feel of paintings painted like "Picasso would have painted them," the kind of paintings more apt these days to draw yawns than elicit shocked gasps. Slightly abstract in quality, with the occasional old school cubist flourish, the paintings feature many of the master's usual iconographic suspects: women and women's breasts, bullfighting, Mediterranean scenes.
Clouzot's primary aesthetic conceit is to represent Picasso's process, literally, sans artist. By placing an illuminated piece of paper in tight close-up in front of the camera, and situating Picasso behind the paper (and thus completely hidden from view), Clouzot manages to remove Picasso's body from the artistic method.
What we're left with is brush strokes. As Picasso applies ink or paint to the back (or front?) of the paper, the paint bleeds through to the front (back?) to be recorded through Clouzot's camera lens. The visual effect is dramatic: since the paper fills the entire frame, the strokes appear to leap across the screen with a life of their own, the effects of an absent cause.
While this makes for interesting film, it hardly gives us unmediated access to Picasso's (and more abstractly, painting's) creative moment. It probably creates the complete opposite. By strategically employing the techniques of filmmaking to separate the body of the artist from his work, we end up with an exercise in unintended alienation.
This is a big problem for a film that begins by asserting, "One just needs to look at his hands [to] know what's going through a painter's mind." A host of interrelated questions beg asking. If "knowing" Picasso depends on looking at his hands at work, what happens when the hands aren't visible? Is the director (himself an artists) arguing in bad faith when he asserts such a "truth," only to deny its expression on film? And, in any event, even if one can see the artist's hands on film, is this the same as seeing his hands in person? Is a representation of the artist's hands (even such a "realistic" representation as that of film) the same as the flesh-and-blood hands themselves?
The Mystery of Picasso offers neither embellishment nor critique of its own rhetoric. It's as if it's engaged in a sleight of hand, making references to the artist's body while systematically removing it from the very moment of artistic creation. In a weird way, the mechanical apparatus of the film camera assumes what should be, properly speaking, the physical place of the painter's primary apparatus, his hands. It doesn't take a giant leap of imagination to go one step further and wonder whether the director is usurping the role of painter.
It's probably fitting then that Picasso is ultimately constrained by the limitations of the camera's mechanics. In the film's central visual "rupture," about midway through what had been a seamless series of paintings, the camera lens suddenly fills the screen, front and center and in tight close-up (undoubtedly in conscious parallel to the placement of the painter's paper medium throughout the film). A second camera then "shares" with the audience the dynamic of camera, director, and artist.
This is a powerful self-reflexive gesture but it is not, importantly, the beginning of a self-critique of Clouzot's cinematic project. Rather, it functions almost like a pit-stop in which the director takes a step back from "Picasso-in-process," and reaffirm the central and dominant role of director and camera in the overall organization of meaning.
Presented to the viewer in a medium shot are Picasso, his palate and paper, Clouzot looking over one of Picasso's paintings, and the camera and cameraman presumably recording the "artistic event." Turning to the cameraman, the director is informed that he has only 450 yards of film remaining in his current reel. In an almost imperious tone, like a foreman to a shop-worker, Clouzot lays down the laws of production to Picasso: "So let's be clear. If anything happens, you stop. And I'll do the same, since we have so little film left." It's clear that the film apparatus comes first, the predilections of the painter second. What could have been the beginning of a provocative dialectical dance between two creative agents, becomes instead an almost sinister affirmation of the control of the director.
There's also a fair amount of talk throughout the film, concerning the painter's "perilous journey" and the "risk" of the artistic creative process. It's hard to imagine though, that there was much at risk for Picasso in being the subject for Clouzot's film. Surely, even in 1956, when the film was first released, Picasso was supremely established, his once radical and avant gardist cubist aesthetic long since having achieved a safe and unassailable position within the artistic establishment. How can a work by Picasso, no matter how mundane, fail to achieve the status of a "Picasso" in 1956? Risk connotes the possibility of disaster, but surely disaster was never a possibility during the making of this film.
Yet, the film goes through the motions. During the rendering of the 19th, and penultimate, painting (the "failed" painting, "On the Beach No. 1"), Picasso makes grand allusions to the darkness of artistic failure: "All this is what I wanted to show: the truth revealed from within. It's getting dark. It's getting darker and darker. The moon... the stars... a shooting star. [The painting's] really bad. I'll get rid of the collage."
But, as if assuring the audience that there was really never anything to fear, the threat of self-destruction turns out to be illusory, a charade. The artist, lost, suddenly finds the lighted path and, selecting a new sheet of paper, reveals in the final painting, "On the Beach No. 2," the true meaning that resided, yes imperfectly but gloriously so, at the heart of the very failure he destroyed. A happy Hollywood ending for all.
In the closing moments of the film, Picasso comes shirtless before the camera and signs a large canvas with his name. Turning back to the camera, Picasso solemnly pronounces the words: "This is the end." But of course, this is not Picasso's film to end, it's Clouzot's. The words ring hollow, as if Picasso was playing the part of a ventriloquist's dummy, forced to mouth words that were never his to begin with. Maybe Clouzot misspoke at the beginning of the film. Maybe he meant to say that we can only know the director by looking at his subjects.
— 5 May 2003

The Mystery of Picasso is the ultimate document on the process of the most prolific master of 20th-century art, Pablo Picasso. In 1955, this celebrated artist, then 74 years old, agreed to paint before the camera. In a brilliant move, Picasso sets to work on a unique mechanism: A vertical easel holds a glass plate on which the paper is mounted. Using saturating inks, the camera catches the work in progress from the other side of the substrate, without the "distraction" of the artist, his arm or even his brush.

There is only one Picasso, and only one film of this kind. From the first stroke, this is cinematic magic. More importantly, this is the intuitive genius of Picasso on display; it's as if we can see his thoughts as they come to him, as they translate from his mind to his brush. If you are a painter watching this, you are familiar with the sensations this creates, and something more extraordinary can happen as you see his work progress: Picasso makes mistakes and paints them out, sometimes successfully, other times not. This is encouraging. If you are not a painter, you just might want to be after viewing this; Picasso makes it seem so simple. If nothing else, one might better comprehend the complexity of skill made manifest in a single line—it's good to know the rules before you break them.

Director Henri-Georges Clouzot (Les Diaboliques) constructs his film as a kind of suspense thriller. The first drawing is accompanied only by the scratching noise of the artist's marker as he works in real time. He draws his old friend and rival, Matisse, whom he depicts studying one of the older painter's signature odalisques. (Matisse had died just months before, and his visage would appear in Picasso's work from time to time until his own death.) The drawing done, Picasso begins with a brush and still working in black, goes too far—if you don't ruin your work, your work is ruined—yet continues, far beyond beauty to the ruinous. The second is done with brushes, in color, accompanied by Georges Auric's (Blood of a Poet, Rififi) orchestrations. This, too, features Matisse, this time standing over the artist himself, who here is dwarfed and clownish, an homage to the older man. Matisse's death haunts him.

What amazes is Picasso's courage and confidence; he starts drawing anywhere and ends up where he wants. (I admit to rendering the figure basically from top to bottom; Picasso can begin with the curve of the back and everything falls into place.) This unique aspect of his talent may not have been known to the public if not witnessed here by the camera.

The pieces continue to build in color and complexity, consistently accompanied by music—sometimes supporting, sometimes distracting—in real time. In chapter seven, The King and Queen, the image begins to appear in time-lapse sequences, changing the pace dramatically. By chapter nine, Fish's Tail, a second camera is now over Picasso's shoulder and our view flips and back and forth. It's here Clouzot succumbs to a bit of whimsy, cutting to himself, the nervous director, as the film reel is about to run out and Picasso attempts to "beat the clock." Filming goes back to real time until Chapter 14, Goat Head, when the medium changes to oils, which are opaque and cannot be filmed from the back. Layers of paint appear and disappear as Picasso re-organizes his composition. This is exciting stuff, but if the film hasn't captivated you by now, it might feel like watching paint dry.

"Give me a large canvas."
For Chapter 15 until the film's end, the format dramatically widens out to 2.35:1 and Picasso begins one of several paint-and-paper collages, this a geometric still life. Although captured in animation-style time-lapse, this last set of paintings is by far the more interesting as Picasso alternately wipes and washes layer upon layer, restructuring shape and composition until he is satisfied.

As in most thrillers, there is a suspenseful climax. The grand finale is a beach scene, the most ambitious canvas in the film and uncharacteristically busy for Picasso. It begins innocently enough, a series of lines and geometric shapes that moves into Fauvist color before devolving into a wretched cacophony the master himself cannot control. He attempts to rescue his composition with collage, but fails. "This is going wrong." As if turning back the hands of time, Picasso courageously removes the pasted papers, wipes down the paint in certain areas. Still nothing. All is not lost, however; the artist now understands where this exercise has led him and so begins again on a fresh canvas to achieve it. Laying down areas of bright color, he creates something that again echoes Matisse, taking inspiration from his The Joy of Life, Luxe, calme et volupte and one of his largest canvases, Bathers by the River. As Picasso was to have said, "In the end, there is only Matisse."

(Images below are of various stages of the above described "failed canvas.")

Extras Review: This section is where this Milestone release departs from the usual art packages of which Image has availed us. There's not one but two commentary tracks, a related film short on Picasso's Guernica, and a theatrical trailer. English subtitles are removable.

The first commentary is by Peggy Parsons "of the National Gallery of Art," who limits herself to reading what others have written about the artist (many by Arianna Huffington) or describing the action on screen ("And you see what he's doing..."). Exactly what her title may be is unknown, but her track reads as one by a docent, or by a junior high school teacher. Ms. Parsons neither recognizes the figure of Matisse nor the homage paid to him, thereby setting the stage for mistrust early on. This commentary is recommended for younger viewers; read any book about Picasso and you'll gain more knowledge than Ms. Parsons imparts.

Archie Rand offers the second commentary. He's a professor of Visual Arts at Columbia knows his subject intimately. Reciting from what seems to be an essay he's written, Rand's insights are more informative and if nothing else, read with a poetic cadence that might be the most interesting accompaniment to the film. He's got a thing about what he calls "Picasso's generosity," and does occasionally discuss the subject of a particular piece before any telling details are laid down, so one might want to view the film in its entirety before playing this track or else be forewarned of "spoilers."

"Women and children all have the same red roses in their eyes."
Guernica (1950), a film (13m:11s), by Alain Resnais (Last Year at Marienbad, La Guerre est finie) and Robert Hessens that uses various works by Picasso along with images of newspaper headlines to illustrate an anti-war sentiment, with his mural Guernica (1935-7), painted as a cry against the Spanish Civil War, as its centerpiece. The reading by Jacques Pruvost and actress Maria Casarès (Children of Paradise, Cocteau's Orphée) is tr?s sérieux and reads like a Beat anthem—it was written by poet Paul Eluard—and is supported by a properly discordant score. The image shows the wear of time and, like the main feature, has a preponderant darkness, but one can still be moved by its content as intended.

Final Comments
A film as unique as Picasso himself in which toreadors and their victims, reclining nudes and the rare aubergine appear on the screen as the artist realizes them. Inspiring and relentlessly authentic in its representation of the artist at work, and named a National Treasure by the government of France, this reviewer highly recommends this as the most important film made on the subject of art in the 20th century.

1. "...Clouzot not only takes you into Picasso's den, he strips away all obstructions -- including the artist..."

2. The friendship between French director Henri-Georges Clouzot (THE WAGES OF FEAR, DIABOLIQUE) and Pablo Picasso allowed Clouzot to film the legendary artist as he created 20 original works (ranging from black-and-white sketches to full color paintings). The result is THE MYSTERY OF PICASSO, an in valuable look at the most influential artist of the 20th century at work. Picasso destroyed nearly all the canvases after filming was completed. Generally considered to be one of the greatest documentaries on art ever made, the film was declared a national treasure of France in 1984.

3. Director Henri-Georges Clouzot and Pablo Picasso were friends and neighbors. The film originally was going to be a short, but it turned into a much longer project. Picasso destroyed most of the canvases once the movie was finished because he wanted them to exist only on celluloid, created for the film and the film only.

4. DVD Features: Region 1 Keep Case Full Screen Audio: Dolby Digital Mono - French Additional Release Material: Audio Commentary - 1. Peggy Parsons - Curator of Film, National Gallery of Art, Archie Rand - painter and Professor of Art, Columbia University Featurette - 1. GUERNICA (1950), directed by Alan Resnais Interactive Features: Interactive Menus Scene Selection

5. "This is very bad."--Pablo Picasso, examining one of the paintings he created for the film

Released shortly after Luciano Emmer's documentary Picasso, H. G. Clouzot's Le Myst?re Picasso managed to attain better international bookings than the earlier film, largely on the strength of Clouzot's worldwide hit Les Diaboliques. Like Emmer before him, Clouzot offers rare and precious glimpses of Pablo Picasso at work. The film traces two of the artist's paintings, from inception to pencil sketch to final product. The director comes as close as humanly possible to defining the genius of Picasso within the parameters of the camera lens. Oddly, Le Myst?re Picasso does not appear on many of the "official" lists of Clouzot's films, even though it won a Special Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival. Hal Erickson

Réalisation: Henri-Georges Clouzot et Pablo Picasso
Photo: Claude Renoir
Musique: Georges Auric
Distribution: Henri-Georges Clouzot, Pablo Picasso et Claude Renoir
Durée: 78 min
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Director Henri-Georges Clouzot films Pablo Picasso as the great Spanish artist dashes out a series of abstract paintings.
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In 1955, Henri-Georges Clouzot had the idea for making an unusual documentary about the legendary artist Picasso. It is intriguing to speculate how the film might have developed, given Clouzot’s mastery of the suspense thriller genre. When the two great men met, the film Clouzot had envisaged took a spectacularly different turn, and the result is one of the most famous and best art films ever made.
In this film, Picasso paints onto a transparent canvas which is filmed from the other side. The spectator is invited to watch as the artist’s creation gradually takes shape. Although not all of the pictures which Picasso produces in this way are necessarily great works of art, it does offer a profound insight into his thought processes. The artist admits to making mistakes and is often seen to struggle to achieve the result he is after.
The unusual, almost surreal, style of the film matches Picasso’s inimitable abstract style of painting, and the combination of Picasso’s seemingly unstoppable creative genius and Clouzot’s direction makes this a mesmerising film.
What is also interesting to watch is the interaction between the two men when the camera is turned on them. Clouzot, famously renowned for being a hard taskmaster, appears to almost bully the great artist, forcing him to hurry up when the precious film starts to run out, whilst deceiving him into how much time he really has left. Picasso’s good humour and humility makes him an engaging and sympathetic character, revealing something of his nature which is not easily discerned from his artwork.
© James Travers 2001