Judith slid the disk into the drive. Seconds later, the film began. Close-up of the actress, twentysomething years old, dark lipstick, Chanel suit, looking straight at the camera. Clearly, seeing this was not to the septuagenarian’s liking. Her features tightened in an anxious expression. After the scene of the slit eyeball, she grabbed up the remote and hit STOP. She stood up sharply and went outside to pour herself some more champagne. Sharko and Lucie glanced at each other, then joined her on the balcony.
The old voice was harsh, dry:
“What do you want?”
Sharko leaned against the railing, his back to the port and the amateur sailors polishing their craft down below. A hellish sun beat against his neck.
“So was that your last film?”
She nodded, her lips still pressed together.
“We’ve come for information. Anything you can tell us about making the film. Its intent. About the little girl, the children, and the rabbits.”
“What are you talking about? What children?”
Lucie took out a photo of the girl on the swing and handed it to her.
“This one. You’ve never seen her?”
“No, no, never… Was she in the film too?”
Lucie pocketed the photo with an aftertaste of disappointment. The part involving Sagnol must have been shot separately. Judith brought the flute to her lips, took a small sip, then put her glass back down, eyes empty.
“I didn’t know, and still don’t know, what kind of film Jacques asked me to be in. I was to shoot some sex scenes, and he paid me handsomely for it. I needed money. Any part was good enough for me. What they did with the images afterward wasn’t my business. When you’re in a trade like mine, you don’t ask questions.”
She pointed to the champagne.
“Help yourselves. It won’t stay chilled very long in this heat. There was a time when I’d have to work a month to afford a bottle of that stuff.”
Sharko didn’t have to be asked twice. He refilled two glasses and handed one to Lucie, who thanked him with a movement of her chin. All things considered, a little alcohol wouldn’t hurt, after the ups and downs of the past few days. Judith let the memories seep in slowly.
“I never thought I’d see those images again…”
“Who made the film?”
“Jacques Lacombe.”
Lucie quickly jotted down the name in her memo book. They finally had a name: that, in itself, made their trip to Marseille worthwhile.
“I met him in 1948. He was barely eighteen and he had a headful of big ideas. At the time, he was filming magic shows at a Paris music hall, the Trois Sous. He had an ETM P16 camera. I dressed and made up the dancers for the show.”
She acted out the movements.
“Bright red lipstick, blond wigs, see-through black lace dresses, not to mention the long Vogue cigarette… That was my idea, the cigarette—did you know that? It was all the rage at the time.”
Her eyes wandered for a few seconds.
“Jacques and I had a beautiful affair that lasted a year. I discovered a brilliant man, far ahead of his time. Tall, dark, eyes like the ocean. Very Delon.”
She took a swallow of champagne without seeming to notice.
“Jacques was a real cinematic innovator; he thought outside the box. For him, there were two ways to see a film: through the plot and the screenplay, or else, and more importantly, by the medium itself, which other filmmakers underused or didn’t know a thing about. He worked on the film itself. He’d scratch it, or poke holes in it, or streak it, or mark it up, or even burn it. For him, film wasn’t so much a surface to record images on but a virgin territory that he could inscribe to convey art. You should have seen him with a piece of celluloid. It was like he was holding a woman.”
She smiled to herself.
“Jacques was influenced by the early techniques of European avant-garde cinema, like double exposure, which was used by surrealist filmmakers like Luis Buñuel and Germaine Dulac. The slit eyeball at the beginning is taken directly from Dalí and Buñuel’s Un Chien Andalou… It was a little tip of the cap to his influences.”
Lucie was trying to write down as much as possible, but the old woman was speaking too fast.
“He also hung out with magicians and became part of their inner circle. Houdini fascinated him, even though he was long dead. I remember how Jacques used the camera in fast motion to break down the movements of the magicians, pierce their secrets. He spent hours, days poring through the rushes, shut up in his little studio in Bagnolet. Pornography was another big interest of his; he dissected every shot, the mechanics of how images inspired pleasure. He had a phenomenal knowledge of montage, at a time when the available materials were pretty rudimentary, and he’d also invented a system of masks he attached to the lens. He made countless experimental mini-films, no more than a few minutes long, in which he managed to capture the viewer’s attention and unmask our relation to violence and art. Every time, I was captivated, shocked, amazed. But the public and the film world didn’t care for his genius or his work. Jacques really suffered from that lack of recognition.”
Lucie cut in, taking advantage of this rush of memories.
“Did he ever describe his techniques? Did he talk to you about subliminal imagery?”
“No, he kept all his experiments secret. It was his private preserve. Still today, in the films of his that have been rediscovered, he did things even contemporary experimental filmmakers can’t figure out.”
“So then what happened?”
“Jacques wasn’t doing so well; he couldn’t catch a break. Producers gave him the cold shoulder. I watched him down gallons of vodka and live on hard drugs to keep going, working day and night. He lost interest in me, and we split up… It broke my heart.”
She turned her eyes to the horizon, watched a cruise liner leaving the port, then returned to the conversation.
“In the time we were together, he had introduced me to the mysteries of the cinema, but also to some rather disreputable characters. I was pretty well-endowed, with a slightly concave bust, like Garbo—people loved that at the time. So I started acting in erotic films to make a living.”
She sighed. Sharko, wanting to take maximum advantage of the champagne, poured himself another flute. He calculated that each glassful was worth about thirty euros, which made it taste all the sweeter.
“A year later, in 1950, Jacques went to Colombia to make The Eyes of the Forest, his one and only full-length feature. He’d managed to raise some paltry amount that barely covered his equipment and a small Colombian crew. The film ruined him for good. Because of it, Jacques got into all sorts of trouble with the French authorities and almost landed in jail.”
“I’ve never heard of it. The Eyes of the Forest, you said?”
“Yes. It was never officially released. Banned from the start. Today, you can’t find it; the existing copies were either destroyed or disappeared into the woodwork. Jacques had shown it to me once the editing was completed…” She grimaced. “It was a film about cannibals, one of the first of its kind, and he was very proud of it. But how could he be proud of such a horror? I had never seen such a vile, repulsive film in all my life.”
Judith’s voice had become throaty. Sharko went to sit at the table, next to Lucie.
“Why did he have troubles with the law?”
“The Eyes of the Forest required weeks of shooting in the middle of the jungle, with the rain, the heat, and swarms of insects. The crews were completely cut off from the world. Filming conditions weren’t as comfortable back then as they are now. You went off with your camera equipment and a few tents over your shoulder. Some of the crew came down with various illnesses, from what Jacques told me. Malaria, leish-maniasis…”