Ulysses at Cannes

Stately, Slim Joseph Strick, director of the film Ulysses, climbed onto the stage of the Salle Cocteau. He sat down at the press-conference table on which someone had placed a statuette no bigger than a Hollywood Oscar: James Joyce in brass, seated with his backside turned to the director.

Some minutes before, in the Grande Salle of the Palais des Festivals, 20 or 30 members of the press--or at least members of the audience at the press showing of Ulysses--had walked out of the theater shouting insults (in French) at the screen. Now, at the first press conference following the first look at Ulysses at the Cannes Film Festival, Joseph Strick sat girding his eyebrows for battle, the fiercest scowl in the room.

Questions?

"I couldn't help wondering," wondered one woman journalist, "sitting through scene after scene of your film, watching with a kind of horrible fascination--why you would make such an abomination."

For a moment, Mr. Strick watched her with a kind of horrible fascination, then said, "And I can't help wondering why you don't leave now."

Applause from those who liked Ulysses, rumblings from those who didn't.

"And please break a leg on the way out."

Laughter, rumblings, lights, cameras.

Raised hands, like a schoolroom scene or a Nazi rally, while a mediator chose from among the questioners and a perspiring translator translated.

Mr. Strick then confessed that he had two principal reactions to people: He hated those who hated his films and loved those who loved them.

"I loved your film," said one young man. (Laughter.) "I've seen Ulysses four times." (Astonishment.) "But I notice the same thing at every showing: The people who walk out always walk out during the Nighttown sequence.... Do you think--"

"As a matter of fact," said Mr. Strick, "I usually consider my films only fifty percent successful. With Ulysses, I feel I was fifty-five percent successful. And the Nighttown sequence, in my opinion, was the most successful scene of all."

Meanwhile, as the Salle Cocteau buzzed with opinions and reflections on Nighttown, some of us, non-French, wondered how Dublin's red-light district in black and white could so outrage the French, whose Nighttowns have always been Technicolored and operate even closer to curbside; or wondered about French sense and sensibility concerning flesh, which is filmed free-form in France with countless breasts and buttocks bare--but the flesh in Ulysses (though much talked about) is seldom shown: Boylan, for example, with his pants off, leaping about in long shirttails; Molly's nightdress in blooming disarray, but hardly what Hollywood calls cleavage; a colleen on the banks of the Liffey lifting her skirts and rearranging kneecaps to arouse Bloom with an exposed stretch of thigh as far as Irish lace will allow--but could this be revelation enough to revolt the French and send them howling into the aisles, oaths abundant, flags and fists flying, banded together now in a legion of decency with the motto Culture Oui, Sexe Non!, marching to the barricades on the Rue de la Pureté? No--but what? and why? and before word of Those Words got around, Monsieur Favre Le Bret, director of the XXème Festival International du Film, was, meanwhile....

• • •

Back at the projection room, did you, Monsieur Le Bret, with all due deliberation, lack of consideration and intention to censor, enter said projection room during Mr. Strick's press conference, grease pencil in hand, mischief in mind, and with said pencil strike out Those Words that, to the best of your (continued on page 222) Ulysses at Cannes (continued from page 101) recollection, you considered offensive and possibly corruptive to public (French public only) monils; and having struck out said Words, did you further forget or deliberately neglect to inform the film's producer and director, the international press attendant (except certain favored French journalists) or any member of the public at large (whose morals were at issue), of said liberties with said grease pencil?

When I saw Ulysses in England--a film I very much like--I realized that certain expressions went far too far. I asked at the time that they be replaced by "euphemisms" in the French subtitles. I think, in effect, there are words which can be heard but one should not read.... I take full responsibility upon myself. [Statement by Monsieur Favre Le Bret, published in Nice-Matin, April 30, 1967.]

Objection: "If anyone had ever asked for changes in Ulysses, we would not have agreed," began Mr. Walter Reade, Jr., producer of Ulysses. "Monsieur Le Bret never once asked----"

A considered opinion: "My considered opinion," Judge Woolsey once said, "after long reflection, is that whilst in many places the effect of Ulysses on the reader is somewhat emetic, nowhere does it tend to be an aphrodisiac."

Another opinion: "I suppose he is a genius." said Nora Joyce, "but he does have a dirty mind."

That night, after the afternoon scandal, Dior-decored lovelies lounged on the arms of bronzed (though sometimes balding) escorts in black tie and polished shantung silk tux, heading down the Great White Way of pure light between the Carlton Hotel and the Palais des Festivals for the first formal festival showing of Ulysses, while policemen in white riot helmets held back the fans: University of Rochester sweaters and sunglasses against the bright lights, miniskirts all pumpkin orange or the latest lime green decreed by Elle magazine, chewing chewing gum with the paper wrapper still on and lighting wrong ends of filter cigarettes out of pure thrill to see star faces smiling back, or trying to weave through Cadillac traffic and parked Rolls-Royces to get a better bead through cheap cameras of a mile-of-smiles movie-star teeth, while an agent de police pipes a threatening whistle blast to warn away trespassers from trampling the planted plants on the traffic islands in the center of La Croisette.

At the red-carpeted foot of the movie-palace stairs, the initiated exclusives with marquee names exposed all-too-familiar photofaces, make-up-department dimples and sequins in their eyelashes, filing toward a firing line of photographers--an elite corps of cameramen in tails, aiming the snappiest Leicas in town--and the trick here was to arrive at just the right moment; there is a vital camera-click interval between movie-star entrances at gala premieres, all such celebrities have the gift: Arrive just when fan fever is highest, careful not to come too late for maximum applause and yet not arrive at the same moment some fellow/sister star shows and risk sharing spotlights or, worse, double exposure. This is what is known as an actor's timing.

A top secret never-to-be-revealed for your eyes only poll of that night's audience revealed: 21.8 percent of those interviewed thought Ulysses was the best book Joe Strick had ever written; of those who knew that Joseph Strick was a director and not an author, at least two thirds believed Ulysses was written by what's his name?--James Jones. 43.3 percent of the audience were under the impression they were going to see a film "all about a bunch of ancient old-time Greeks sail the seven seas and have wars and get laid by sirens and stuff." Only 7.6 percent of the audience had ever read more than four pages written by James Joyce; and of those readers, nearly hall confessed they were searching for--well--you know. Seventeen members of the audience stated they had read Ulysses in its entirety; and of these, at least 15 were lying.

The most important Novel of the 20th Century now comes to the screen with all, its Frank, Bold, Searing insight into the Heart and Mind of Man.

Would you believe some of its Frank, Bold, Searing insight?

The film version of Ulysses is a scaled-down Ulysses in print. A saga reduced to a novelette is bound to lose weight along the way; but if a novelette is what we have to judge, let's judge the novelette; and if faithful is what you want in book-into-movie production. Ulysses is faithful to a fault. Splendid words are splendidly rendered, and they are Joyce's words, not additional dialog. Milo O'Shea as Leopold Bloom was Bloom enough for me, and Barbara Jefford as Molly Bloom was almost more Molly than I would have imagined. The director had the discretion and the sense to present unfamiliar faces in already reader-familiar roles--or perhaps he just couldn't afford to pay celebrity stale out of a $930,000 budget. (Colossal Productions at Hollywood and Vine would have had to put a sword in Dedalus' hand and turn him into a true Son of Ulysses after ramrodding Rock Hudson into the role.) Time called the film a précis, and précis is perhaps precisely what it is. Two hours and twelve minutes is still not sufficient time to crowd the full Joycean crowd before our eyes or to speak as much Joycean speech as we might want to hear--but to step out of the awesome shadow of the tome for a moment and enter into a sound stage, instead of remembering some 700 pages--well, then two hours and twelve minutes of Ulysses on screen is 132 minutes well spent. ReJoyce.

• • •

But the gala premiere audience did not get that much undisturbed time with the film. It soon became obvious to Mr. Strick. if not to everyone else in the theater, that Those Words were actually blacked out at the bottom of the screen.

Stately, slim Joseph Strick, director, rose from his seat and intoned the words "Stop the projection!" But the projection rolled right on.

War council between producer and director of Ulysses: Joe will storm the projection room to have the film stopped, while Walt (Walter Reade, Jr., wearing the white carnation) will announce what the protest is all about. Half a dozen functionaries were already stationed at the projection-room door awaiting the assault. Threats--excuse my French--and words about Those Words. Grapple and push. Suddenly, Joe Strick is inside the projection room, where the reels of Ulysses roll on. Riot.

"Throw him out," in French.

"Dehors!" "Outside!"

"Throw him all the way out!" in further French.

"Tell me something," asked the house doctor later. "How did you happen to sprain an ankle at the movies?"

Omnium-gatherum the following day: At Press Conference II, a starlet with a lovely blonde rope of hair was drafted to translate, but the translation went too slowly for the French. They had already profited from exclusive news the day before and now resented having to sit listening in English. (I confess, at this point, that several non-French journalists were unhappier over the fact that only hand-picked Frenchmen had a direct line to Le Bret than over Le Bret's censorship of the subtitles to Ulysses.) Two translators volunteered to replace the blonde, and finally a third participated, too. until the very air hummed with translation. The French, smiling snidely, one newspaperman to another, wrote their notes in red ink--because the aftermath of a scandale célèbre should always be written in blood.

What was the ultimate ultimatum?

Your action in mutilating a motion picture invited by you to the festival is barbaric, Arrogant and intolerable. The insult is not to us alone but to all who care about films. We demand a public apology and a restoration of the courtesies you owe to your international guests, Colleagues and friends. We demand another screening of the picture in the original form, In which you invited us to show it. If we are not satisfied on these matters by ten A.M. tomorrow, We have no choice but to withdraw from the festival, And we shall urge all those who are horrified by your disrespect and highhandedness to follow us.

(Signed), Joseph Strick, Fred Haines, Walter Reade, Jr.

Mon Anus Royal Irlandais! (French subtitle.)

The point, pointed out an Argentinian reporter, was: Was the translation of the subtitles taken from Valéry Larbaud, as approved by Joyce and accepted by the Académie Française? But that is not the point, Mr. Strick insisted, we were never restricted by the festival to any one translation; there were only six weeks to do subtitles for a work that took Joyce seven years to write--if such restrictions were made, or restrictions of any kind insisted upon, we would have refused to enter the film.

Argument over Valéry Larbaud.

The man responsible for the subtitles--who was never consulted concerning the controversy--wrote to the Paris Herald Tribune on May 4, 1967:

It may be quite true that, according to the Trib reviewer, some of the subtitles "would better fit a medical dictionary than a work of art," but if it is so, we'll have to blame Valéry Larbaud. I am a seasoned enough subtitler to have foreseen what happened in Cannes, and to have followed strictly Larbaud for all the "medical dictionary words."

(signed) Jean Sendy

I noticed during the press conference that Mr. Fred Haines, author of the screenplay of Ulysses, coproducer and ultimatum signer, held a book in his hand. Compulsive reader that I am, I could not resist edging over to Mr. Haines when the press conference broke up, to glance at the title of the volume he carried. It was a copy of Ulysses, by James Joyce.

Shall we go in to lunch? suggested Mr. Strick.

We lunched at the Carlton with a young lady from the London Observer and were intercepted en passant by a table-passing parade of cinema names and ultimately, to stay, Mr. Lewis Allen, producer (Lord of the Flies, I later learned), sitting down at our table to relax from what seemed like some personal nightmare, saying, No, nothing to eat, thank you, I'm, you know, sort of... You look a lot better, said Joseph Strick. You looked ghastly last night, observed the Observer. A little wine? suggested Mr. Strick. No, thanks, no, I'll just have a little of that water, I think.

"Well, what did you think of it?"

"Jesus, when I saw those subtitles scribbled out.... Did you contact name yet?" asked Mr. Allen.

"Yes, and he approached some of the jury members--Shirley MacLaine, I think, and Vincente Minnelli. We're going to try to get the jury to resign in protest."

"I'll talk to Truffaut," said Mr. Alien, who had recently produced Fahrenheit 451, directed by François Truffaut. "He's down here making a film with name, and if there's anything he can do, he'll do it."

"We're going to talk to some of the other delegates to try to get them to withdraw their films in protest."

The terrine du chef had already been served and the waiter was pouring more Cotes de Provence. The waiter asked Mr. Allen if he would care to order lunch, but Mr. Allen slid deeper into his chair and admitted he had only just finished breakfast. He poured himself a second glass of mineral water.

"What did name think of it?" asked Mr. Strick, lingering over his plate.

Mr. Allen hesitated, saying, "Well. You know how she is. About Joyce." He slipped a little deeper into his chair. "Parts of it she thought were great, she really did."

Mr. Strick's digestion seemed to improve and he finished the last of his terrine.

I was somewhat startled to see what looked like a silver boiler approaching across the carpeted way. rolling under the glistening chandeliers on silent rubber wheels. Closer, it resembled an iron lung; and when the waiter rolled open the door, I was reminded of a casket with the half lid open for display. Poor old Paddy Dignam in there, and we were at his wake. But no, it was ham.

Over our table's platters of ham and next-door neighbors' salades Niçoises, crosscurrents of talk eddied from table to table to the clink of silverware with Carlton crests. I might have heard, if I'd listened hard, but I didn't exactly:

Listen to the man from Cahiers du Cinema: "Shadow and substance with underlying symbolism are shown by the lighting alone."

And the man from Le Nouvel Observateur: "Three men sharing a tower in Dublin could only represent a socialist society with its comradely associations."

Cahiers du Cinema: "Truly, Ulysses, for the lighting alone...."

Le Nouvel Observateur: "And below surface antagonisms, there is, in their relationship, a genuine philosophy of the ideal state."

Before dessert, both Cahiers and the Nouvel O. would tell the U.S. to go home.

We were eating ham and discussing an actor, name was up for a choice role in the United States, but Joseph Strick suggested he would absolutely have to get an American agent to deal with his agent in London. Who's his London agent? The young lady from the London Observer named name--and words were said by all who knew him.

Coffee was served, but Mr. Allen continued with water. Mr. Strick mentioned The Last of the Just, He would like to direct Just next, with Mr. Allen as producer, if only they could come up with a literate script. Three names were named who had already tried to write one.

Mr. Strick said, We ought to get a boat and do some sailing, and Mr. Allen sat up and thought, Yes, a great idea, and they both tried to think of a boat they could get and then Mr. Allen thought he knew where they could get one. They really had to get a boat, yes, and sail the hell out of the yacht harbor next week.

But next day, before noon, Joseph Strick flew away on BEA, bound for London.

Before leaving, he issued the following statement:

Our film Ulysses has been mutilated.

We have been lied to, humiliated and denied fair access to a fair competition.

We withdraw.

But was that the end?

No, because right after all Those Words went down to whispers sometime after the final anticlimax with no nothing left to talk about but is Bardot coming or not there came to Cannes a strange outfit outfitted from almost outerspace no not misfits dont misoverstand but really so In only they knew how far lets just say strange and possibly lonely together led by a hungry hungover boyscout without a meritbadge except the Brillo boxes and assorted supermarket cartons to his name hair bleached withered white and sun-glassy eyes so overexposed to popcolor they were colorless as used flashbulbs flanked by his popartyficial cowboy carrying a cap pistol with a Reputing who wrote the script not to mention Miss National Velvet in black national velours for the occasion or whatever occasional comment you care to make plus another Miss Somebodyelse as deathwhite as her sisterstar both mascaracd to the bone black massacred about the eyes miscarried to Cannes God knows not scared scarred but is nothing sacred dyeing with their Courregesboots over whitebody stockings shocking minijuped thighs on thin shaved fashionmodel pins and Vogue-knees and you knew they both bit their fingernails out of camerarange Chelsea-girls claimed their spokesman smoking for there was their spokesman growing bald and already barefoot on the Plage Sportive trying to con together cameracrcw enough to make the day worth while while the photographers were mostly down downing drinks at the Carlton bar pretending to be producers and the few newsmen to be had had gathered by now pressing unimpressive questions to the boyscout leader swallowing his boyish Adams apple burying his answers in the sand or replying whispers for the spokesman to quote for outside being In everything was an Injoke even wherein are you staying and whereat do you go from here until the spokesman tried to rally Chelseagirl support support your local Chelsea girl the film afterall was Invited In he insisted by telegram and now not one official officially admitted it film or telegram either and not one theater would admit three hours and thirty minutes schizophrenics on their screens which is actually nothing to the twentyfive hours their leaders next film will run on how many split screens only he knows possibly four but trash said the boyscout all of my movies are but it keeps us off the street but the point pointed out the spokesman is are we Invited or not we came to Cannes by telegram and now we Cant did you go in personal-to-person to Delegate General Le Bret and ask him to ask again no because Monsieur Le Bret is strangely no longer home to scandalflicks with untitled subtle subtitles all entreaties useless Ulysses did that but a secretary secretly went in for us with our signed petition with hundreds of names not to mention Marguerite Duras even wanted to see our Girls and God knows whomelse because they were all in French but the secretary secretly asked herself if she should ask again no knowing Favre Le Bret is not now about to be trapped twice in one festival already scandal-swindled and possibly proved prude but she relented entering the Delegate Generals office and asked the directors director if he knew who was here no not Andy Warhol I hope yes said the secretary and he wants to show the world his Chelseagirls merde euphemistically reflected Favre and without further reflection or final ado it was no he said I wont No.