The stakes for the Cesars were less artistic than political this year. With I accuse favorite against Portrait of the girl on fire (respectively twelve and ten nominations), it is the French reaction to the MeToo movement which was played Friday evening in the spotlight, a few months after a new accusation of rape against Roman Polanski and the revelations of the actress Adèle Haenel, harassed by the director Christophe Ruggia. Beyond the Polanski case, the internal crisis of the Academy echoes criticism of a French cinema where, in front of as well as behind the camera, women and minorities remain underrepresented.
The prize list would therefore have a symbolic dimension. This is the case, unequivocally. The coronation of Misérables (best film and three other awards) was overshadowed by that of Polanski. By awarding him the César for Best Director, voters affirmed their unwavering support for the filmmaker – and his reinterpretation of the Dreyfus affair, while also welcoming the script. So, when the United States condemned Harvey Weinstein, France honored Roman Polanski. In the land of “freedom to bother,” MeToo will wait. “Shame!” Hissed Adèle Haenel as she left the room to announce the award. Granting her the best actress trophy would have been a strong sign, but Portrait of the girl on fire leaves with a single statuette (for Claire Mathon’s photograph). The Academy also takes precedence Thanks to God and the documentary M, who denounce pedophile abuse in religious circles, without seeing the slightest hiatus.
The ceremony, boycotted by the team I accuse, looked tense. It was trying. For more than three hours, the big family of French cinema gave the spectacle of a pitiful psychodrama, interspersed with heavy moments of unease: a bad remake of Festen, with Polanski in the role of the patriarch. Master of ceremonies, Florence Foresti tries her hand at creaky humor, but will not reappear on stage after the Polanski award. Handing in embarrassment, Jean-Pierre Darroussin mutters the name of the director to express his disapproval. More subtle, Fanny Ardant evokes “judgments that condemn”. The actress Aïssa Maïga counts, on the fingers of one hand, the number of blacks present in the room.
Never has the microcosm of French cinema seemed so divided, like the polarized debate that is unleashed in the press and on social networks. Some greet the liberated speech, the others intone the refrain of one can not say anything more, or play their role as if nothing had happened, refusing to choose a side. Finally, there remains the unpleasant impression of having attended Polanski’s public trial, but a trial wanted by his defenders, having named his film twelve times. And won by the interested party. A victory as bitter as the defeat of its detractors, which postpones the necessary questioning of the profession.
–
