Notes

1. 1. Christian Metz’s productive and open-ended speculations on the relation of language to cinema (1974 and 1991a) gain force when juxtaposed to François de Dainville’s Le langage des géographes (1964), a rich encyclopedia, dictionary, and history of cartographic signs. For Dainville maps possess special idiolects that belong to deeply embedded visual and oral cultures that change over time. For Metz the comparison of film and language becomes a heuristic quest that goes from linguistics to psychoanalysis and back again to linguistics.
2. 2. The term is pivotal and decisive in the historical parabola that David Buisseret draws in The Mapmaker’s Quest (2003). The author argues that the advent of cartography in the early modern age brought with it a new sense of location and a sense of place in the world. It initially takes the shape of topography but is ultimately tied to those agencies—cinema included—that seek to locate their subjects in the places they represent for them.
3. 3. “In that empire the Art of Cartography reached such Perfection that the Map of one Province alone took up the whole of a City and the map of the empire the whole of a Province. In time, these unconscionable Maps did not satisfy and the Colleges of Cartographers set up a map of the Empire which had the size of the Empire and coincided with it point by point. Less Addicted to the Study of Cartography, the succeeding Generations understood that this widespread Map was Useless and not without Impiety they abandoned it to the Inclemencies of the Sun and of the Winters. In the deserts of the West some decayed Ruins of the Map, lasted on, inhabited by Animals and Beggars, in the whole Country there are no other relics of the Disciplines of Geography” (Borges 1964, 90).
4. 4. In a remark implying that cinema is of a cartographic order Michel de Certeau (1984) observed that the filmic image is of many layers and of different interpretations that inhabit its space. It “is a multiplication of texts and of their readings upon a single surface. From this point of view an intimate relation exists between the image and the landscape. A landscape is a stratification of texts that allows for a multiplicity of readings. . . . I believe that there can be no fundamental difference between an image and a text, a text having been for ages perceived as an image.”
5. 5. Jacques Rancière (2001) argues that cinema is a product of both active and passive agencies of creation. The artist or auteur imprints a style or signature upon a film, but the lens itself records elements that are not entirely under the director’s control. A map in a film calls attention to the interrelation of these agencies.
6. 6. In his compelling Fate of Place (1997) Edward Casey concludes that the experience of “being-in-place” ties sentience to geography (342 and passim). The point is made with graphic precision throughout Representing Place (2000), in which landscape, being, and spatiality are studied through the lens of the artist as philosopher.
7. 7. “Where am I in fact when I look at a map and I say ‘I am here?’ It is worth recalling that in a statement of this kind the personal pronoun ‘I’ refers to the person who speaks, an empty form in which the enunciator invested. ‘Here’ is the linguistic designation of a particular position in space: it is defined in respect to the context of the enunciation, but also to the system of language and of lexicon and meaning.” Here and elsewhere Christian Jacob (1992, 431; 2006, 341) synthesizes the act of reading a map with deixis as it is understood by Emile Benveniste (1966).
8. 8. Many films and directors could be read transversally. If the work of a director-auteur can be fathomed as a cartography, it would be tempting, in Hitchcock’s The 39 Steps, to link the map of Scotland that Robert Donat, the man who had asked Mr. Memory of the distance between Montreal and Winnipeg, extracted from a dead woman’s hand to the Bridge of Forth at the northern border of England. There, where the hero escapes the clutches of the police, he defies the vertigo we feel when the camera peers downward from the upper reaches: the same feeling overwhelms the timorous hero of Vertigo near the Golden Gate Bridge, a structure transforming a touristic site into one of trauma. The bridge in turn has a miniature (and perhaps traumatizing) analogue on a smaller scale in the cantilever brassiere that his friend Midge has designed in her architectural studio. And the Golden Gate would figure in a map of monuments and what they commemorate or repress in the greater body of Hitchcock’s oeuvre. Through its maps each film or body of films brings forth a different network of relations with space and time. Each requires study within the confines of its own cartographies.
9. 9. Blache’s impact on French schools is noted in Guiomar 1997.
10. 10. Deleuze marks the relation of “prehension” and perception to events in Le Pli: Leibniz et le Baroque (1988, 103–12, esp. 103, a propos a “nexus of prehensions”).
11. 11. Ptolemy 1991, 25, col. 2. The full quotation is given in chap. 1, n. 14. Pieter Apian illustrates the analogy in his Cosmographia of 1521 and many subsequent editions up to 1550.
12. 12. The history and taxonomy of the isolario or island-book is taken up in Lestringant 2003. It coincides with a moment when, in the development of oceanic travel, the expansion of the borders of the world led cartographers to compose atlases in which new information could “float” aside inherited knowledge. Deleuze himself was a philosopher of islands. One of his first writings is “Causes et raisons des îles désertes [Causes and Reasons of Desert Islands]” (in Deleuze 2002, 11–17). The article considers the geographer’s distinction between continental and oceanic islands as a creative philosophical principle.
13. 13. Bazin inaugurates his “Evolution of Film Language” with a quasi-ironic similitude yoking biblical typology to the history of cinema. “In fact, now that the use of sound has sufficiently demonstrated that it was not seeking to destroy the Old Testament of cinematography but to fulfill it, there is reason to wonder if the technical revolution coming with the sound track indeed corresponds to an aesthetic revolution, in other words, if the years 1928–30 are indeed those of the birth of a new cinema” (1999 [1975], 63).
14. 14. Deleuze is probably thinking of Hallelujah! (1929). It will be shown in chapter 2 that in Renoir’s Le Crime de Monsieur Lange (1936) the “collective and unanimiste” character of cinema is brought forward and, by way of virtual mapping, is severely called into question.
15. 15. Perhaps one of the keenest moments where the cliché is summoned is found in Tay Garnett’s comic masterpiece (laden, by the way, with maps), Trade Winds (1938), in which Frederic March and Joan Bennett “deconstruct” each other’s amorous clichés.
16. 16. In his typology Deleuze is not far from Jean-Luc Godard’s aesthetic that argues for images that despite themselves must be resurrected from the ashes of Auschwitz in order to redeem over and again both cinema and the world. Deleuze calls them “time-images” through his affiliation with Bergson, while Godard juxtaposes old and new images in his Histoire(s) du cinema (1998), especially 1:134–35, that is the topic of close and productive analysis by Jacques Rancière (2001, 232–35).
17. 17. The relation with the atlas is uncanny. Printed editions of Ptolemy in the wake of the Columbian discoveries were designed to include “old” and “new” projections such that a sense of history and typology could be gained by the juxtaposition of two maps of the same area, and not, in the name of progress, the removal of one in favor of the other (Goffart 2003, 14–15).
18. 18. The cartographic latency of Deleuze can be found in Bogue 2003, Lacotte 2001, Château and Lageira 1996, and Fahle and Engel 1997. Rodowick 1997 remains a point of reference.
19. 19. See especially Ropars-Wuilleumier 1997, 243–54, and Leutrat 1997, 407–19.
20. 20. At stake here is Michel de Certeau’s distinction between a strategy, taken as a general mode of control or even of hegemony, and a tactic, a local and specific practice that works otherwise or even against the control of strategists. In concert with much of Michel Foucault’s work on discursive and visible formations, the distinction is crucial not only to Certeau’s polemology but also, on a certain scale, to the analysis of film: how to use films—that most often are conceived on the grounds of strategic ends—for interpretive tactics has much to do with the study of maps and mapping of cinema. In L’Invention du quotidien 1: Arts de faire (1990) the pages on uses and tactics (57–69) and on the “arts of theory” (97–116) serve as a threshold to the cinematic and cartographic treatment of city spaces in a section titled “Spatial Practices” (139–93), in which the author shows how citizens map and correlate language and space in what the author calls the invention of everyday life.
21. 21. Little wonder, as fairytales have shown since the dawn of time that a film bearing a rating of PG-13 is often of far more erotic force than those classified as NG-17. See Williams 1999, a work that shares much with the Foucaldian principle of the diagram.
22. 22. Much of Paul Virilio’s writing on the ways that cinema seeks to control perception in Logistique de la perception: Guerre et cinema (1982) has its conceptual grounding, it appears, in Foucault’s work and may even bear impact on Deleuze’s readings. In all events the convergence of Virilio and Foucault is felt in many of Godard’s cinematic diagrams, especially those of the first hour of his Histoire(s) du cinema that blend words and images that are direct citations of Virilio’s book: in, e.g., the juxtaposition of the logo of 20th Century Fox (whose beacons signal the presence of antiaircraft technology) to a clip from a bombing mission and images taken from Rembrandt and Goya (in the textual accompaniment to the videotape [1998, 1:100–105]).
23. 23. Emphasizing the cartographic style of Foucault’s investigations Deleuze draws attention to writing, understood in a Certallian sense, as a tactic. Foucault in reality was quoted as saying, “The use of a book [and here we can put in its place a film] is narrowly tied to the pleasure it affords, but I do not at all conceive of myself making a body of work, and I am shocked that one might be called a writer. I am dealing with instruments, I am a maker of recipes, I am someone who indicates objectives, a cartographer, a reader of surveys [releveur de plans], an arms maker” (1994 [1967], 725).
24. 24. In Maps and History: Constructing Images of the Past (1997) Jeremy Black shows that since the advent of the Ortelian atlas (1570) cartography has been a taken to be a spatial representation of history. It figures in pedagogy where geography and chronicle are used both in texts and in the space of classrooms to mould citizens (the point will be developed below in chapter 7, in the classroom in Truffaut’s Les 400 coups).
25. 25. The film attests to “intelligence and the consciousness of means” that are in perfect equilibrium with “the sincerity of the story” (Bazin 1999 [1975], 235).
26. 26. Giuliani 1986, 135. The film confirms what Thierry Jousse remarks in the context of a recent retrospective at the Cinémathèque de Paris: “For as much as the world of [Howard] Hawks is circumscribed, limited, and finished, Walsh’s is vast, limitless, expansive. In Walsh’s films the border is endlessly displaced and his characters never cease to go toward it” (2001, 65)
27. 27. The sequence is taken up in greater detail in chapter 9 below.
28. 28. “In the appreciation of a work of art or an art form,” he reminds us, “consideration of the receiver never proves fruitful. Not only is any reference to a certain public or its representatives misleading, but even the concept of an ‘ideal’ receiver is detrimental in the theoretical consideration of art, since it posits the existence and nature of man as such. . . . No poem is intended for the reader, no picture for the beholder, no symphony for the listener” (Benjamin 1969, 69).
29. 29. Marie-Claire Ropars-Wuilleumier has noted that Freud’s writing is cinematographic (1981, 65–66). In his work on Freud, she observes, Derrida translates Zusammensetzungen, Freud’s word describing lexical forms in which different figures reside in the same graphic sign, as montage. Samuel Weber makes a similar point about Freud’s concept and practice of dream-writing in the name of Bilderschriften in his Legend of Freud (1982, 33–35). David Rodowick situates Freud’s “montage” and “picture-writing” in the context of film theory in Reading the Figural, or, Philosophy after the New Media (2001, 91–92).
30. 30. At the beginning of “The Uncanny” Freud writes geographically. Aesthetics, what he will take up in the essay not merely as the theory of beauty but as “the theory of the qualities of feeling,” belong to a “remote” province usually overlooked by specialists. Freud admits that he must “plead guilty to a special obtuseness” on the topic of the uncanny and that, because it is distant from him, “he must start by translating himself into that state of feeling, by awakening in himself the possibility of experiencing it” (1955, 17:219–20). The small Italian city surely belongs to a remote province of the Uncanny; Freud’s visual acuity might be seen in the 45-degree angle opened on the inner side of the letter z and his obtuseness in the 135-degree angle on the other.
31. 31. The editors of the Standard Edition note that in a letter of May 12, 1919, to Ferenczi Freud had written of taking an old paper, possibly dating to 1913, out of a drawer and rewriting it. The story he told to his interlocutor betrays a repetition-compulsion at the same time it spatializes a traumatic history: the essay was begun around 1913, before the First World War, and then gestates until it is rewritten and published in 1919, a year whose doubled numerical sign attests to the uncanny. Both letters and numbers are reiterated: Freud published the text in his sixty-second year, the number he finds “uncanny” in the paragraph following the story of his promenade in the small Italian town (1955, 17:237).
32. 32. This point is based on what Piera Aulagnier reports (1975) from clinical labors in psychoanalysis in which analysands need to construct mental maps that allow them to gain a bearing on their lives where otherwise their relation with the world would be devastatingly rootless. I have tried to set the findings in the context of mapping in The Self-Made Map: Cartographic Writing in Early Modern France (1996c, 7–18, 22).
33. 33. The dyad of a local-and-global consciousness that Jameson puts forward in The Geopolitical Aesthetic: Cinema and Space in the World System (1992, 10), “how the local items of the present and the here-and-now can be made to express and to designate the absent, unrepresentable totality” might belong to a discursive formation, indeed a cartographic archive, that reaches back to Pieter Apian’s Cosmographia—Latin edition, Antwerp, in 1529, and twenty-nine more editions in five languages over the next eighty-five years (Karrow 1993, 52–53)—in which the connections that tie humans at a local level to a cosmographic picture are implicitly shown to be tenuous. The new twist, as Colin McCabe makes clear in his preface to The Geopolitical Aesthetic (xiv–xv), is found in stress placed on the politics of interpretation. A discussion of Apian’s work, on mapping and painting and its implication for film, however anachronistic it may seem, is taken up in chapter 8 below.
34. 34. In his discussion of cinematic deixis Christian Metz writes of the ways that characters in a film become landscapes (that voices become spaces) when speech is discerned to be impersonal (1991b, 34). A broader philosophical treatment of the same issues is Wolff 1997 (200–202), in which remarks are made on the invention of the world that takes place in the act of enunciation.

1. 1. Mercier 1999 [1770]. The text was first published by E. van Harrevelt in Amsterdam (either in 1770 or 1771), soon translated into English as Astraea’s Return ; Or, the Halcyon Days of France in the Year 2440 : A Dream.
2. 2. Alexander Moszkowski, Conversations with Einstein, cited by Michaelson 1979, 47 (emphasis added).
3. 3. The Garnier “Nouveau Paris monumental” (1900–1903), titled “Itinéraire pratique de l’étranger dans Paris,” featured the monuments of the city drawn on a scale larger than the map itself. The largest of all is the Tower. Clearly shown are the subway lines that make the buildings accessible to the tourist. A more detailed description of this map is found in the opening paragraph of my chapter 7.
4. 4. Most modern atlases begin with descriptions of the creation of the planet or composition of the globe and its core, as does The National Geographic Atlas of the World, when it draws a broad time line starting with the formation of the earth (4.6 billion years ago) and ending with the Cenozoic period (Shupe et al., 1995, 1–2). The penchant for an atlas to tell of the history of things is taken up in Goffart (2003, 444–45 and passim).
5. 5. Abel 1994, 406–7. The hero builds a pneumatic clock “that can accelerate time in his interest. After a quick text, in which the traffic on a Paris street goes into fast motion” (406), the film tells of the next twenty years of Onésime’s life. Abel notes that the film was commonly taken to be a precursor.
6. 6. In Le Mystère René Clair (1998) Pierre Billard argues that Clair had wished to have the memory of Durand’s film present in order to mark his own originality. Clair’s “escape into a farcical fantasy is solidly rooted in the concrete reality of Paris at the time” of the filming (80).
7. 7. The digest version is appended to René Clair, Under the Roofs of Paris/Sous les toits de Paris. The longer version is distributed by Timeless Video (Hollywood Select Video, North Hollywood, 1993). This version carries intertitles, in English, that are decorated with a globe in the shape of a human face that smiles or grimaces according to the sentiment expressed in the words adjacent to it.
8. 8. Ptolemy 1991, 25–26. The importance of this distinction cannot be underestimated in the history of cartography, studies in spatial theory, and even film theory. Its importance in terms of language and image is taken up in Nuti 1995, 53–70, esp. 55.
9. 9. The re-edited version does not include this shot. It cuts to a panoramic (also in the earlier version) that tilts downward to capture the École militaire at the end of the Champ de Mars. In the foreground are two supporting wires that appear to be attached to struts above and below the man who appears in the lower area of the shot as it tilts downward. Very clear, especially in the restored version of the film, is the movement of cars along the Avenue de la Motte-Piquet between the garden and the military school.
10. 10. In the edited version the take of the Invalides dissolves back to the eastern view of Paris that had been seen in the first takes of the earlier version. No dissolve is apparent in the latter, immobility being emphasized.
11. 11. The film confirms J. Brian Harley’s hypotheses that draw in part on Michel Foucault, in which cartography is seen in a historical field as an agent of control and of power. Cartography is traditionally a teleological discourse that reifies power, which itself is “enforced, reproduced, reinforced, and stereotyped” by conscious and unconscious processes of domination. Harley argues that they provide hidden rules of cartographic discourse “whose contours can be traced in the subliminal geometries, the silences, and the representational hierarchies of maps” (1988, 302–3).
12. 12. The spiral staircase has more than panoptic virtue in the revolution of point of view that the watchman gains as he descends. From the Middle Ages it belongs to a rich tradition of perspectivism and of anamorphosis, as shown in Guillaume 1985, 24–47.
13. 13. The shot is very similar in its articulation to abutting triangles of water and of pavement in much of the photography of Jean Vigo’s L’Atalante (1934). In that film photographer Boris Kaufman concretizes an overbearing social contradiction in which implacable stone—the street and asphalt that are home to the homeless—is offset by atmospheric illusion. Here also Clair does the same. The abstraction of a fluid area is in strong contrast to the city, which Gilles Deleuze calls “a geometrical configuration of combined parts that superimpose or transform movements in homogenous space” (1983, 63). Clair gives it its keenest expression by conferring life upon “geometric abstractions in a homogenous, luminous and grey, depthless space” (ibid.). I have tried to make a cartographic reading of Vigo’s feature, with allusion to Clair (2006, 253–72, esp. 264, 269).
14. 14. The intertitle of the later version is less interpretive (or psychoanalytic) in tenor: “Tout s’est immobilisé cette nuit” [Everything came to a standstill last night]. The words appear to be the voice of an absent prestidigitator from earlier cinema.
15. 15. In the earlier version of the episode of the arrival the plane is aligned with the voices of the six persons who regroup themselves around the first car. The events are literally spoken for by the characters (a cutaway shot to the top of the Tower is enough to establish where the watchman had been the night before), which the arrangement of intertitles and cutaway shots continue to make clear: after they arrive at the apartment where one of the passengers seeks to find his mistress, everyone regroups by their cars to confer about what to do. They deduce that an event took place at 3:25 a.m., which is confirmed by two cutaway shots (in daylight) to a clock, and another to a speeding plane in the air. The title-cards indicate that they will take refuge at the top of the Tower before they enter the mistress’s apartment.
16. 16. The battle on the cornice of the Tower, the stuff of silent cinema, is interrupted by sound cues that the early version of the film had put into the narrative prior to the sequence devoted to the inhabitants’ ennui and the violence they enact on each other. Albert and the woman repair to the bedroom where a wireless, attached to a megaphone, is said (by virtue of an intertitle) to emit a faint voice. The later version elides the episode announcing the presence of a voice. The men interrupt their combat and run to the room containing the wireless after having beaten and run after each other in the maze of girders, and just before an intertitle states, “‘Si quelqu’un m’entend’” [“‘If anyone hears me ...’”]. The “coming of sound” is coded into the first version and effaced—perhaps for reason of the reduced number of intertitles—and entirely lost in the second.
17. 17. André Chastel sketches the background of the sign in Le Geste dans l’art (2001, esp. 68–70).
18. 18. Certeau 1985, 873–78. The work can be read productively adjacent to his “Les revenants de la ville” (1987). A similar mystical voyage and fable inspire René Clair’s Le Voyage imaginaire (1925), a film that uses panoptic takes from the top of Notre-Dame-de-Paris.
19. 19. Courcelles 2003. The author calls mystics creatures of experiment, seekers of new and other truths who gather in the life about them a vital sense of alterity (41–42). They speak and write in a way that their words are laced with images and figures of absence. Language and image are both present and absent.
20. 20. Paul Virilio (1982, 31 and figure 13) makes the connection between the RKO pylon and the Eiffel Tower. He adds that the beacons surrounding the megalith that bears the name of 20th Century Fox belong to the apparatus of antiaircraft detection and thus figure in the emblem to remind the viewer unconsciously of the power invested in the medium. Following Virilio, in the text of his Histoire(s) du cinema (1998) Jean-Luc Godard places the Fox logo, replete with beacons flashing in every direction, adjacent to footage of a bombing raid Goya’s “Night of the First of May” (1:101–5). The printed words of the voiceover read, “de naissance d’une nation/de l’espoir/de Rome ville ouverte/le cinématographe n’a jamais voulu faire/un événement/mais d’abord une vision” [from birth of a nation, from hope, from Rome, open city, the cinematographer never wanted to make an event, but first of all a vision]. Godard replaces Virilio perception with vision in order, it appears, to redeem actuality as a document of art. Surely René Clair’s work is at the origin of the issue. See also the Introduction.
21. 21. Richard Terdiman (1992, 106–47) studies the poem in view of the changing demography and topography of the city “(la forme d’une ville/Change plus vite que le coeur d’un mortel)” (ll. 7–8). The politics of Terdiman’s reading are of a tenor similar to Clair’s.
22. 22. Guy Rosolato defines the perspectival object as a sign of a representation of the unknown, or a figure of a lack that the viewing subject perceives in a visual field, in, first, Eléments de l’interprétation (1985, 123–32); and, second: “L’Objet de perspective dans ses assises visuelles” (1987, 151ff.). Its relation with the unknown is developed in his La Portée du désir ou la psychanalyse même (1996, 167–68).
23. 23. Clair’s film makes manifest, it seems, the “spiritual automaton,” a concept that Deleuze (1985a, 203–5) relates to a possibility that film communicates in a “common power of what prompts thinking and of what thinks” (204) when images of movement are perceived. The spiritual automaton, he continues (214), quickly becomes the subject under fascist control. Andrew and Ungar (2005, 194) reach a similar conclusion. Clair “polishes everything to a smooth surface without mystery or depth, so that all elements can interact according to a rhythm.”
24. 24. Jean Starobinski (1973) documents the dream of a world where night will never fall. In L’Ecriture de l’histoire (1975) Michel de Certeau shows how the Freudian dream of “enlightenment” amounts to an articulation based on “things effaced or lost and that cause the text to be the deceptive sign of past events” (296). In Une politique de la langue (1975) he and authors Dominique Julia and Jacques Revel show how the emblems of a land (that might include, it can be added, the Eiffel Tower) and its language are built to turn an unconscious sense of things—a darkness—into the constructive effect of a political mission, a figure of the “Nation” (165). Ousselin (1999) offers a strong reading of the Tower through close analysis.

1. 1. In “Le Cinéaste de la vie moderne: Paris as Map in Film” (1996b, 71–84) I tried to assert that Boudu sauvé des eaux inaugurates a “geographic unconscious” in which the film maps out embedded layers of spatial and historical relations. Paris is shown to be a site of conflict. The remarks that follow on Boudu intend to be more specific in addressing the presence of maps in the image-Weld of the film.
2. 2. Without the maps in the field of view it would be difficult to obtain the effects that Alexander Sesonske, à propos Boudu as a vagrant and a disenfranchised flâneur, calls the “flatness of the space” in which he moves (1980, 131). Sesonske notes that the shots of the figures in the water are “rather like a cinema version of Brueghel’s Icarus” (125).
3. 3. David Woodward (1990, 109–22) distinguishes between route-enhancing, center-enhancing, and “equipollent” maps. In the latter, an innovation of Roger Bacon, equal value is ascribed to all points on the map itself. The same can be said of the deep-focus shot in Renoir’s cinema.
4. 4. The text itself is crystalline. Plan can be read to mean a plane, a shot (within a shot), a map, and even a way of organizing an image. In an exhaustive treatment of Deleuze Ronald Bogue generalizes the discussion of multiple framings to include “the world-as-reflection, as infinite mirrorings, stagings, performances, spectacles, rites, and ceremonies” (2003, 133).
5. 5. For admirers of Les Fleurs du Mal the sites might include “La vie antérieure” in the first section, “Spleen et Idéal,” or in the Dutch landscapes and map-pictures of Vermeer alluded to in “Invitation au voyage”; the prose poems about the noise and agitation of Paris, in which he tipped into one of his pieces the English slogan, “Anywhere out of this world”; and of course, “Le Voyage,” the final poem that begins by invoking the child who travels in admiring prints and maps of different origins.
6. 6. Christian Jacob (1992, 106–9) notes that the Baroque atlas has a cinematic disposition in the way that the movement from a world map to local views makes the “reading” of the pages inspire “the pleasures of the imaginary voyage, of the voyage of the mind. The atlas thus pertains to a global curiosity for foreign countries” (109). At this moment in Boudu Baudelaire meets the Baroque atlas.
7. 7. Christopher Faulkner notes that the shot is “of an internal montage that seems to signify the final irreconcilability of established values with the world of the clochard” (1986, 38). Faulkner argues that for Renoir an individual’s social action cannot lead to political change. (My thanks to Margaret Flinn for taking note of this passage.)
8. 8. Orthographe is used in the architectural context known to the word in the Renaissance. “Orthography” had meant both the art of spelling and of the disposition of a well-ordered façade of a book and of a building. In the introduction to his works of 1544 Clément Marot writes that that “every building that is not well arranged [sans sa disposition] makes its orthography less comely, no matter how it is plotted [cymettriée]” (Defaux 1993, 3).
9. 9. In Renoir’s cinema culinary cartography is everywhere. Boudu refuses to eat bread with fresh butter from Normandy and cannot stand the white wine so different from the taste of the water in which he has been swimming. In Toni (1934), Albert, the principal antagonist and stranger to the property that he owns in southern France, despises ratatouille. Personages tend to estrange or even to call in question what Renoir perhaps somewhat disingenuously called the total social fact of human “belonging” to the locales in which they were born. “ [E]ven more than race,” man “is tributary to the soil that nourishes him, to the conditions of life that shape his body and mind, to the landscapes that through the entire day are shown before his eyes,” “Souvenirs de Jean Renoir” (in Le Point, 1938), reprinted in Bazin 1989, 146.
10. 10. In the first chapter of his Theory of Film Practice (1981), Noël Burch demonstrates that offscreen space, openings, and closures of windows and door mark Renoir as of his Nana in 1927. It is surely given greater force in Boudu and becomes a hallmark of Renoir’s style up to La Règle du jeu.
11. 11. The soft focus implies that his body is as infantile and sensitive, like unprotected protoplasm, in contrast to the view of Batala who is in crisp and even crystalline focus in the background and who is seen in totality as he approaches Lange.
12. 12. Bazin 1989, 42. His map of the site is printed on page 41.
13. 13. Alexander Sesonske uses the same passage to emphasize further in Lange a “feeling of unity in diversity” (1980, 216) that the displacement of the map calls into question. For Sesonske Renoir’s camera has the redemptive virtue of holding in its shots and editing a “coherence” through the “overlapping, enclosing, opposing relations” that circles and circular movements bring to the staging. He sees a “vitality of the life of the court” in the “success of the recurrent cyclical forms in achieving completion and closure” (217). The map itself, a pan de mur décoré, indicates that neither it nor its surroundings encloses anything at all. The point is made clear where Andrew and Ungar (2005, 217) contrast the making of a film-in-the-film to Lange and Valentine staring at one another in front of the map in the garret. The line that connects their heads is the Mexican-American border running from Arizona to Texas.
14. 14. Isabella Pezzini (1996, 63–65) argues that utopian maps are often the ground plans or even the very sites of fiction. Maps are made to effect transformation from an initial projection, an image of things created by words. Her treatment of More’s Utopia, drawing on Marin 1973, could apply to Le Crime de Monsieur Lange.
15. 15. A propos La Règle du jeu Bazin (1989, 76) wrote, with obvious affinity for Baudelaire’s fourth sonnet of Les Fleurs du Mal, that “the film is only an interlace of reminders, allusions, correspondences [correspondances], a carousel of themes in which reality and the moral idea answer each other [se répondent] without lacking meaning and rhythm, tonality and melody.” Throughout Cinéma 1: L’Image-mouvement Gilles Deleuze (1983, 65–66, 114–16) establishes a distinction between liquid and concentrated mass. In French cinema of the 1930s the one is always set in contrast to the other, as in the separation of water and pavement between a diagonal line in Vigo’s L’Atalante or even the shimmer of water behind the letters that spell the name “Boudu” in the title-shot of Boudu. Here, too, the distinction is made but with political and spatial inflection.
16. 16. “Traitement provisoire de La Grande Illusion,” in Bazin 1989, 169.
17. 17. Some of their maps are of uncommon clarity and detail, as shown by Buisseret 1964, 13–84. The quality of the cartography is made clear in the facsimiles in Dainville 1968. See also Buisseret (forthcoming) and Hale (forthcoming).
18. 18. La Grande Illusion (1971, 76), Criterion, in the DVD edition of the film at chapter 11, at 58:19 in the film). In a recent assessment of the episode John Hamilton (2003, 43) notes that the teacher, donating his life to Pindar, “suffers a radical expropriation. . . . In preserving the life of Pindar’s poetry, Demolder literally must bury himself in his books and suffer a kind of scholarly interment.” Hamilton notes that Demolder says little in the film and that, both visually and thematically he “is somehow in the way, obstructing Boëldieu’s important cartographic investigations” (42). Hamilton’s misreading of Boëldieu (and of playing cards, cartes, that he assumes to be “regional” thematic maps related to diseases) in fact attests to a broader cartographic dimension in the sequence. Playing cards, checkered towels, posters, and a map are all in proximity.
19. 19. The backcloth belongs to an art and practice of folding and of unfolding in the production of portative charts. Military maps, bicycle maps, touristic maps, and road maps follow patterns of folding that bear on perception. In Jacob 1992, 115–19, and 2006, 82–86.
20. 20. The words do not figure in the script (Renoir 1971, 76), nor does any description of the pictures.
21. 21. Which, of course, they are: medieval maps affirmed a “moralized cartography” that scientific procedures set aside. See Schulz 1978, 425–35, and Peters 2004, introduction and conclusion.
22. 22. Chapter 17, at 1:51.30 in the DVD copy.
23. 23. It is tempting to think that Rosenthal’s words anticipate Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari’s concept of “smooth” space that contrasts its “striated” counterpart. Smooth space would be oceanic, without borders, undifferentiated, totalizing, and of open possibility, while striated space would be that of distinctions, frontiers, lines of demarcation, class differences, and divisions among first, second, third, and fourth worlds. In Deleuze and Guattari 1980, 592–625.
24. 24. Huizenga 1955 draws extensive attention to illusion and in-play, an element that a map in a film almost invariably elicits. Stanley Cavell ends The World Viewed: Reflections on the Ontology of Film (1979, 230) with a treatment of La Règle du jeu. The film “unsettles the illusions by means of which civilized people conduct themselves,” and it is by means of a “loving brutality” that “Renoir declares film’s possession of the power of art.”
25. 25. Shot 70 of the film, translated from Olivier Curchod’s meticulous critical edition, Jean Renoir “La Règle du jeu”: Nouveau découpage integral (1998, 86–87). See also McGrath and Teitelbaum 1971, 57. Primary reference is made to Curchod, whose descriptions of the shots and their movements are thorough and informed.
26. 26. The contradiction is enhanced by an implicit visual joke, a latent rebus, seen in the folding walking stick that La Chesnaye carries with him. In popular French mener une vie de bâton de chaise is an idiom describing people who live by the seat of their pants. Vagrants or errant souls, they are classless and homeless. The film is riddled with visual and verbal contradictions so doubly bound that the meaning of what is seen is undone by what is said or heard and vice-versa. Some of the consequences are taken up in my “Laws of the Game” (1996a, 95–117).
27. 27. “[I]n his Cosmography,” notes Samuel Edgerton Jr., Ptolemy insisted “that the mapmaker first view that part of the world to be mapped as if it were connected at its center to the center of the viewer’s eye by a ‘visual axis’” (1987, 14).
28. 28. In a cartographic moment in “Les Mistons” François Truffaut shoots the protagonists of his film through the very same style of balustrade. See chapter 5.
29. 29. See Pelletier 1998 and 2001; Jacob 1992, 410–12.
30. 30. Such is the frontispiece to Jean Le Clerc, Le Théâtre géographique du royaume de France (Paris, 1631), in which Henry IV is seen as Hercules, holding a club in his right hand with which he crushes the Catholic hydra below his feet, and in his left a globe that is both the world and a cannon ball. Illustrated in Pastoureau 1984, 533, figure 44. See also Hale 1964. Renoir himself bore knowledge in pre-Revolutionary artillery. He writes in 1937 of Lieutenant-General Vallière who “rendered to artillery the greatest service that could be done” in having the king sign a decree requiring an examination for every officer enrolled in the division of artillery. “It was the only arm where a commander did not need to be a nobleman, but where nonetheless knowledge needed to be imparted” (1974, 127). Vallière was responsible, he adds, for the superiority of French artillery over that of the Prussians.
31. 31. Cavell adds that the absence of Octave (Renoir) from the mise-en-scène identifies the director as “both cause and casualty”: of the murder and therefore, too, as an artist who poaches and who is poached (1979, 230).

1. 1. Skelton 1964, vii–viii. Karrow (1993) offers a telling and concise treatment of the impact of Ortelius on the European horizon.
2. 2. Among other authors, the “theater of cruelty” is taken up in Lestringant 1996, 147–98, and Conley 1990, 1–6.
3. 3. Rancière’s allusion to comedy prompts recall of the opening shots of Preston Sturges’s Palm Beach Story (1941), a film whose effects of spatial doubling and mirroring merit extensive comparison with Romà, città aperta. Peter Brunette (1987, 41–60) offers a balanced view of the making of the film and, too, a careful study that accounts for the resistance it poses to critical assessment.
4. 4. A reader wonders if the names themselves are so obvious that they reveal amorous secrets on the part of the director, who reputedly was then or soon to be in love with Ingrid Bergman. If so, then a rupture or a division was inscribed in the division of the name into male and female units.
5. 5. Paul Virilio (1982, 34–36, and figures 7–9) tirelessly makes the point that the war movie is decorated with maps but also determines how they are used in the reality of war. In a study of Objective, Burma (Raoul Walsh, 1945) I have tried to show how the map is tied to the decipherment of cinema and an eroticization of the field of the image (Conley 1991, 71–101, esp. 86–87).
6. 6. It is shot 26 and is of a duration of 2 and 15/24 seconds: reference is made to Roncoroni 1973. Further reference to specific shots will be made to the numbers provided in this edition.
7. 7. In a study of Elizabethan cartography and literature Richard Helgerson (1992, 133) writes of the way that “the land speaks” in a topographic and chorographic tenor. Works such as Michael Drayton’s Poly-Olbion and the atlases of John Speed and Christopher Saxon were designed to chronicle the power of monarchs and the spaces they owned, but the increasing attention that they paid to localities indicated that they were speaking for their inhabitants. “Service to the country alone—with all the ambiguous meaning the word country then had; kingdom, nation, county, locality, countryside—was displacing service to king and country, just as the latter had displaced service to God and his church or service to one’s liege lord regardless of country. The emergence of the country as a single, if variously significant, term for the focal point of allegiance parallels the emergence of the description, survey, or chorography as an autonomous and widely practiced genre.” The shift of emphasis in cartographic representation from lands of the king to the lands known by and for the population in England merits comparison with the more embedded historical process in Rossellini’s cinema. His films (especially when they are superimposed upon one another) deal with national unification: how, in the midst of war and military apparatus, such as maps, that propel subjugation, can the difference of nation and locale be addressed?
8. 8. Richard Kagan (1998, 76–77) makes a vital distinction that pertains to this context. A chorographic image of a city is a topography made available to cartographers and engineers. In these views urbs “served mainly as a screen,” but the act of peering through it “afforded a glimpse of the city’s inner self, the city as civitas” (103). Chorographic views, like tourist maps, were made for people living outside of the city, while “communocentric views served a home audience that was presumably already endowed with a ‘public image’ of their city or town” (103–4), intending to solidify a sense of a community and its individuality. The tension resides in the ways that the maps are viewed in this film. Bergmann looks at a map as urbs and Manfredi sees them as civitas.
9. 9. The hat belongs to an iconography of revulsion. In 1945 or 1946 (and today, too) the sight of any piece of Nazi clothing prompts a reaction of disgust. German hats were especially icons of brutality. Those who wore them could only be considered human beasts The bicycle thief in Vittorio de Sica’s Ladri di biciclette (1948) is loathsome not only because he steals Ricci’s lease on life but especially because he wears a German soldier’s cap. The film infers that he might have scavenged the hat from a dead or retreating soldier. The eagle on the hat recalls the last and accented word of a German military song, “Heimatland/Sei gelobt Du roter Adler [Homeland/May your red eagle be praised],” sung by a patrol that marches through the Piazza di Spagna in the evening in front of the Spanish Steps and the church of Santa Trinità dei Monti as they are seen from the Via Condotti (1 6.19).
10. 10. Schulz (1987, 97–122) notes the cycles were produced between the mid-1560s and the mid-1580s. Under the impetus of the Duc of Como (and with the advice of Giorgio Vasari) Egnazio Danti and Sefano Buonsignori decorated the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence with frescoes inspired by Ptolemy. Two cycles decorate the Vatican Palace in Rome, and another the Palazzo Farnese at Caprarola. In the Roman context of the film they cannot fail to be recalled.
11. 11. Jacob (1992, 127–28; 2006, 132) deploys Michel de Certeau’s principle of the “spatial story” (elaborated in 1990, 175) to show how a “periegetic” itinerary takes place in the gallery. Bergmann mimes the itinerary and then analyzes it after he reaches his desk.
12. 12. Abraham Ortelius, in Le théâtre de l’univers (the French edition of 1582) of his Orbis theatrum terrarum encouraged his reader to fly over and about the world by going from one map to the next. In the 1606 (English) edition he writes of the way that the viewer can travel everywhere without leaving the happy confines of the room in which the atlas is consulted. At this point Roma, città aperta taps into a topos that links travel, cartography, and a relation of panopticism to power and control.
13. 13. Yet by deduction the viewer cannot fail to note that the Via Tiburtina would have been seen on the first map of Rome that Bergmann and the commissioner were studying in shot 14.
14. 14. In this sequence the gaps between the sound track and the subtitles tell much about the space and style of the film. Francesco tells Manfredi that Pina left open (aperta) the apartment for him after she discovered that he was not a policeman. After Francesco reports that a leader wants Manfredi to “break all contact” with the Resistance center, Manfredi (always before the map) adds that it is an obstacle to “be blocked after so much labor [il lavoro di dovere restar re bloccato].” The subtitle translates his frustration as, “to be cut off from headquarters.” The same words are taken literally in Paisan, in the sixth story, when one of the American soldiers tells a companion (prior to a series of figurative decapitations) that they are “cut off from headquarters” (shots 41–41, Roncoroni 1973, 322–24). A reading of the episode is taken up in Conley 1991, 114–15.
15. 15. They are shots 505, 507, 509, 511, 513, 515, 517, 519, 523, 525, and 586 (Roncoroni 1973, 130–33). The same map is placed behind Ingrid in shots 580 and 583, in which she and Bergmann reproduce each other’s itinerary to and from the threshold of the torture chamber and the desk in front of which Don Pietro is illuminated by an electric lamp.
16. 16. For Renoir see the treatment (in chapter 2 above) of the shots of the front of Lestingois’ bookstore in Boudu sauvé des eaux. The presence of a transcending viewpoint given on a map when treated as a work of art is taken up in Buci-Glucksmann (1996, 3–35).
17. 17. Roncoroni (1973, 140), describing shot 557. The shape is obsessively visible in shots 557, 559, 561, 568, 570, 603, and 604 when Bergmann is in frame, and in 590, 591, 592, 594, 596, 598— the shot begging comparison when the priest makes a sign of the cross in giving absolution to his dead friend below him—in those instances where Manfredi is in frame.
18. 18. Roncoroni, who rarely comments on the maps in the shots, notes that shot 563 begins with a “wall map seen on the background” (1973, 141).
19. 19. “The Intelligence of the Present,” foreword to Roncoroni 1973, xviii.
20. 20. In 1953, in their Technique of Film Editing author-filmmakers Karel Reisz and Gavin Millar note that the technique was “at present rather out of fashion” (246). The authors of The Film Studies Dictionary (2001, 264) maintain that it had been popular in the 1930s and 1940s but gave way to the straight cut except where it was used for comic or archaic effects, as in Jonathan Demme’s Caged Heat (1974).
21. 21. It is found between shots 6 and 7 (Nannina closing the shutters of her apartment), shots 67–68 (Pina en route from the bakery to her flat), 81–82 (Marcella and Pina in the stairwell), 113–14 (Marcello and Pietro walking and being passed by a streetcar), 134–35 (Marcello going up his stairwell to the attic), 146–47 (from the resistance print shop to Marina’s dressing room), 156–57 (Ingrid staring at Marina’s mirror and transition to Pietro’s rectory), 179–80 (from the Austrian deserter to the inside of the local church), 180–81 (Don Pietro and Pina walking on the Via Casilina), 277–78 (courtyard of Francesco’s building and front of Pietro’s church), 309–10 (Marcello running upstairs after a 360-degree pan in countertilt), 384–85 (Marina moving away from the window sill where she witnesses the slaughter of two lambs by pistol shot), 425–26 (from Marina in her bedroom to Manfredi sitting in a chair in the adjacent living room), and 428–29 (Manfredi crossing the street en route to the rectory).
22. 22. Published at the time of the making of Roma, città aperta, Claude Lévi-Strauss’s “Le Dédoublement de la représentation dans les arts de l’Asie et de l’Amérique“ (1958, 269–94) offers a plausible theory of the image and of the wipe. For the indigenous mind, he argued, “décor is the face, or rather, it creates the face. That is which confers upon persons their social being, their human dignity, their spiritual meaning. The double representation of the face, considered as a graphic process, thus expresses a deeper and more essential splitting: that of the ‘stupid’ biological individual and that of the social personages they take to be their mission to incarnate” (285). A symbolic magic of cinema is mixed with that of the splitting of the “ego” that would be Ingrid who is Ingrid as long as she looks both at the photo (as a social being) and at her image (as vampire or malevolent force). Surely in this sequence the stylization of Ingrid could be compared to that of Gloria Grahame’s face in The Big Heat (1954), who is the classic manifestation of a face in split representation.
23. 23. Robert Burgoyne (1979, 36–47) analyzes the mirror-effect through the filter of Lacanian categories. The neo-real is the reel, while the imaginary would be the double register of Ingrid’s and our desire to hold what is beheld. If the Lacanian notion of “desire” means seeing everything all over the image, then it follows that the image qualifies as a cartographic form.

1. 1. Quotations are from both the film and Gomery 1979, shot 106 (79). Where the screenplay and the film version do not coincide the latter is quoted prior to the former.
2. 2. Study of the montage that depicts the delivery of the pardon is taken up in Conley 1991, 169–72.
3. 3. Marie-Claire Ropars-Wuilleumier (2003, 76–77) works on this theme and draws it through the power of cinema to produce mental spaces.
4. 4. In its reception High Sierra is noted to be an important film in the continuity of an “evolution” of the gangster film from its cops-and-robber character of the 1930s to the drama of the solitary and immanent figure, a person controlled by destiny, in the convention of film noir. To place it at a juncture of transition would simplify its spatial invention. For at this juncture (at shot 34) the Western genre inhabits the film at the same time the narrative belongs to classical myth. The DVD commentary repeats what Douglas Gomery tersely concludes from commentaries by Jack Shadoian, Robert Warshaw, and others: “Warner Brother raised Roy Earle, their new gangster figure, to a position of high tragedy (in an almost classical sense). High Sierra represented a nation’s farewell to the gangster and the Great Depression,” ultimately signaling “the end of the classical gangster film, and the beginning of film noir” (Gomery 1979, 25–26). Following Deleuze’s taxonomy (1983, 282–83), the film also belongs to a modern genre, one that approaches the time-image, in which strategic conspiracies are denounced.
5. 5. The sequence plots the economy of the film insofar as it draws into the figure of the pharmacist (Harry Hayden) an analogy with the viewing public, and in Earle the film itself (Conley 1991, 173).
6. 6. The screenplay is geographically precise where the film is not. The officer barks, “Went north, did he? Well, we’ll take no chances. If it’s Earle, he’s trying to get back to L. A. over the pass at Bluejay. We’ll get him. I’m going to use your phone, John” (shot 248, 167). The next shot would have shown the summit of Mount Whitney in the distance.
7. 7. Lone Pine jumps off the map in order to crystallize the film in its own history of production. From Regeneration (1915) to The Big Trail (1930) Raoul Walsh had been one of the first directors to shoot significant segments of his features on location. The cartography in the Vorkapich montage of High Sierra brings forward routes and places accessible to a growing population of automobile owners in southern California. For many viewers Earle’s desperate journey through Lone Pine and its environs indicates that the trajectory leads the hero to a place known for being the site where thousands of Westerns had been filmed. A genre and a style of filming are folded into the topography.
8. 8. It now belongs to a pantheon of citations. When Marie asks reporter Healy (Jerome Cowan) what it means for a man to “crash out,” she rehearses the tenor of the question that Jean Seberg asks of the chief of police at the end of A bout de souffle (1960). The fall of the dead body anticipates the pathos of the ending of Tirez sur le pianiste (1960). Because it turns Mount Whitney into the site of myth the film is a “toponymic tale,” a sort of secular hagiography that turns a place into a memorial space (Lestringant 1993, 109–27, and Certeau 1975, chapter 6).
9. 9. In cartography the model is that of what David Woodward (1990, 109–22) calls a “routeenhancing map,” or an itinerary drawn on or across a map.
10. 10. The episode has a signature effect both in Walsh’s cinema and in the fortunes of Hollywood cinema. Kirk saves the men by taking a bullet from Germans rushing to the rooftop over which everyone else, the heroic woman included, have jumped. As he plummets she beholds the scene and shrieks in exactly the same way that Ida Lupino had at the sight of the fall of Humphrey Bogart at the end of High Sierra. In Desperate Journey the episode has uncanny resemblance to the leap that Scotty (James Stewart) makes in Vertigo, after which he is traumatized. Gilles Deleuze (1983, 276–77) argues that such sequences attest to the crisis of the image as “action” and as “movement” in classical film. The scene of the fall embodies what he calls a “mental image” in which the characters in the film, “in a way that is more or less obvious, assimilates them as spectators.” They call into question the nature and status of the action in which they figure.
11. 11. The style is associated with the maps of Richard Edes Harrison (Schulten 1998 and Thrower 1996).
12. 12. To this point the film rehearses cartographic sequences in Objective, Burma! (1945) that refines the pattern given here, taken up in Conley 1991, 79–101.
13. 13. And indeed it is a Lockheed-Hudson, a craft Flynn later identifies when he radios to headquarters after eluding ground fire and taking the plane aloft. The aircraft may have been chosen not only as a “spot” to advertise the product of the company but also an aeronautic icon. The model 14 delivered Neville Chamberlain to Munich in 1938 where he signed the treaty assuring “peace in our time.” In 1939 the British Purchasing Commission ordered 250 planes, the delivery of which was interrupted by the outbreak of World War II. English flyers used the craft to patrol the coasts of the British Isles. The planes were quickly enlisted to bomb U-boats and witnessed surprising success between 1941 and 1943, according to Garner and Gustin (n.d.).
14. 14. Language figures strongly in the camouflage. The American actors (especially Raymond Massey) imitating German soldiers speak pellucid German, the idiom with which the Australian, Flynn, is conversant where the others (especially Reagan) are not. Yet, in order to be sure that he will not be overheard or surreptitiously detected, at one point Massey, looking over the scene of the Allies’ attack on the first bridge and theft of uniforms, asks his sergeant if he “understands the English language” in order to speak secretly in the prevailing tongue of Hollywood.
15. 15. In a study whose title, “L’Opération historiographique” bears more than a superficial resemblance to Raoul Walsh’s Objective, Burma! (often remembered as “Operation Burma”) Michel de Certeau (1975, 63–120) argues that a work of history begins from a “place” it chooses to be the foundation on which it builds its effects of truth. “Here and there history remains configured by the system in which it is elaborated” (79). Much of the chronology it proposed belongs to a “masked law” (104–7) dictating that a history is written from a “founding non-place” that was “then” where the history stands “now.” In Desperate Journey the map and city seen in the credits situate the non-place, and the camouflage—or narrative—that follows constitutes the history. The non-place is Schneidemühl, and the narrative or discourse is the journey comprised of comic and tragic scenes reflecting the very production of the film in its own milieu.
16. 16. For Harrison’s innovations and presence in cartography of spheres and of relief in general, see Thrower 1996, 210–15.
17. 17. The last shot in the montage seems utterly out of place. The men on bicycles ride over a French terrain that is defined by the spire of a stout Romanesque or Anglo-Norman church in the background.
18. 18. “Non-place” is a term Marc Augé (1992, 98, 117) coins to refer to areas of transit, such as waiting rooms beyond the security gates in airports or the club rooms reserved for frequent flyers of given airlines, in which are mixed feelings of privilege and anxiety: privilege, because the subject has the wherewithal to be there; anxiety, for the simple reason that the inhabitants know they are about to take a voyage whose perils and dangers are greater than what the décor might lead them to believe it to be. The non-place is to be distinguished from Gilles Deleuze’s lieu quelconque (“any-place-whatsoever”), more typically a sordid zone, border area, terrain vague, or indiscriminate place, lacking identity, where humans are in the midst of detritus and trash. Deleuze’s concept is close to the originary landscapes he studies in the films of Buñuel and Rossellini (1983, 181–82, 286).
19. 19. The relation with Julien Duvivier’s Pépé le Moko is well known. Pépé begins with a map of Casablanca and its casbah and effectively shuttles, as does Casablanca, from a present space of a tragic labyrinth in a colonial land to nostalgic reminiscence of Paris through song and words about the beauty of the underground subway. Andrew and Ungar (2005, 273) call the film a “locus classicus of desire for Paris.”
20. 20. Assayas 2001, 138–43. Olivier Assayas later directed Irma Vep (1996), a film that responds to the industrial aspect of American cinema in the wake of French new wave films through citation not of classic cinema but of the American underground film.
21. 21. Assayas varies on a point that Claude Lévi-Strauss (1962, 33) makes at the outset of his Mythologiques: “The question is not one of sailing toward other lands, were their location unknown and their existence hypothetical: only the voyage is real, not the land, and routes are replaced by the laws of navigation.”
22. 22. In his preface to The Branded Eye (1993, 17) Jenaro Talens argues that from the first image the film tells the spectator that it originates from a narrative tradition “established by Paramount in the course of its history.” In this line a commanding study of titles and credits, including the fortunes of the Paramount logo, is found in the essays Böhnke, Hüser, and Stanitzek assemble in their Das Buch zum Vorspann (2006).
23. 23. The grammar floats as does the image of the mountain. Paramount Pictures are omnipresent in the film that they present. The name is of an enduring presence in its sustained act of presentation.
24. 24. The film makes the most of the shot and counter shot. Jones stands in front of the blackboard; a young woman with “love you” written on her lids causes the professor to stumble and conclude that all available research gives little reason not “to date this finding as we have.”
25. 25. Arc, ark, archeology, and Marcus are drawn across Mercator: Assayas draws attention to the dialogue that lacks vivacity, “slows the action down,” and even muffles any eroticism that might have been slipped into “this system of stifling morality” (143). Yet in this sequence the play of signifiers that runs from speech as it is spelled out to the referents in the image attests to a powerful allegorical machinery that makes everything follow the parabola of action. In a review of E.T. that he calls the Odyssée de l’espèce (that puts “species” in the place of espace or “space”) Jean Narboni (1982/2001, 155) notes that for both Spielberg and Francis Coppola word-play and attention to signifiers is crafted to suggest that the cinema belongs to a cosmogony. The terrestrial globe on which One from the Heart began allowed the title to be read, “thanks to a simple literal permutation, as One from the Earth, designating a dimension of absolute creation of an artificial world and the cineast’s cosmogonic will to power” (155). Narboni’s reflections can apply also to the globe-sequence in Raiders.

1. 1. The Catholic cosmographer might have obtained the woodblock from the print shop of Balthazar Arnoullet, who had published maps and city-views in Guillaume Guéroult’s Epitome de la Corographie d’Europe eighteen years earlier in Lyons. The image made its way into at least two other works, Poldo d’Albenas’s Discours historial de l’antique et illustre cité de Nismes, en la Gaule narbonoise (Lyons: Guillaume Rouillé, 1560) and Antoine du Pinet’s mix of maps and chronicle, Les Plantz, pourtraitz et descriptions de plusieurs villes du monde (Lyons: Jan d’Ogerolles, 1564). Mortimer, entry 445 (1964, 500–501), traces the history of the circulation of the woodblocks.
2. 2. Truffaut had in fact shot Une visite (1954) with a home-movie camera. The film was not destined to inaugurate a new mode of cinema.
3. 3. Article in Arts (May 15, 1957), cited by Baecque and Toubiana (2001, 219–20).
4. 4. Truffaut 1988, 125. References to the letters will be made to this edition in the text above.
5. 5. Robert Lachenay (born in 1930) was indeed one of Truffaut’s closest childhood friends and the producer of Les Mistons. He was the model for the character of René Bigey in Les 400 Coups (Truffaut 1988, 19 and 141). In response to a letter to a Japanese student writing a dissertation on Truffaut the director admitted that “Robert Lachenay” counted among his own pseudonyms (516). The proper name was given thus to circulate between life and cinematic fiction.
6. 6. Sigmund Freud, “A Note upon the Mystic Writing-Pad,” in Freud 1955, 19:227–32. The text is glossed in Derrida 1967, 293–340, esp. 319–21.
7. 7. The sequence shot in a manner that appears to allude to Visconti’s La Terra trëma (1948), in which the inhabitants of Aci-Trezza are shown framed in windows in series of tilts and countertilts. No shot in the film seems to be without reference to other films.
8. 8. Michel de Certeau explains the practice in “Utopies verbales: glossolalies,” (1980, 26–37). Glossolalia is an intermediate form of speech, a private language whose incomprehensibility is part of its symbolic effect. It is also taken up in the same author’s work on the possessed women of Loudun (1975, 251–53).
9. 9. Truffaut apparently had mixed feelings of love and hate for Clouzot. In his adolescence Truffaut had seen more than half of the 200 French films shot during the Occupation. He admired “une certaine religiosité” (surely part of “a certain tendency of French cinema”) associated with narratives of impossible love. He liked Le Corbeau because it was noir and “hard to see” (interview in the archives of the Films du Carrosse, cited in Baecque and Toubiana 2001, 50–51), and he admitted having known it by heart, shot by shot, after seeing it thirteen times (76). But for polemical reasons he had to denounce the director when he wrote “A Certain Tendency of French Cinema.” Truffaut soon ranked Clouzot among the keenest adepts of “French quality,” prior to “executing” him in an article titled “Clouzot au travail, ou le règne de la Terreur” (223).
10. 10. “Entretien avec François Truffaut,” originally in Cahiers du cinéma (December 1962), cited in Baecque and Tesson 1999, 160–61.
11. 11. “Chiens perdus sans collier [Dogs Lost without their Collar] is not a piece of garbage, it’s a crime perpetrated according to certain [certaines] rules, a theft conforming to certain [certaines] ambitions that are easily discerned: ‘make a lot of money in hiding behind the label of quality’” (cited in Baecque and Toubiana 2001, 202). See also Baecque 2003, 162–63.

1. 1. Kline 1992, 24–53. Kline’s reading, a point of reference for any and every study of this film, will be closely followed in these pages.
2. 2. At times the map is referred to as “La Carte de Tendre” and at others “La Carte du Tendre,” in which the longer title is compressed. I have opted for the latter because “tender” has substantive force in its usage both in the seventeenth century and in Malle’s film.
3. 3. Joan DeJean (1991) and Anne Duggan (2005) make compelling arguments for the précieuses’ invention of a properly feminist space. The military and commercial background, evident in cartographic work of the second third of the seventeenth century, brings the hypotheses into even sharper focus. A keen reading of the allegory is found in Peters 2004.
4. 4. Almost every pedagogical edition of the play, from the “Classiques Larousse” or “Classiques Hatier” to “Gallimard/Folio,” carries an illustration of the map. When, in an interview about the film, Malle once spoke of the map as a quaint or bizarre “geographic representation of all the variations around the theme of love,” he might have been telling viewers to look again at something overlooked or that Molière had reduced to ridicule.
5. 5. According to David Buisseret (1996, 2–3) the estate map was a transitional genre of map that grew as of the end of the sixteenth century. It came with the development of new modes of mensuration and the need for private landowners to have images of their property. The Carte du Tendre resembles an estate map insofar as the staffage in the lower-right corner are taken to be a group of précieux. They look over an allegorical domain while they entertain each other, it seems, with words that might match the toponyms above them. Their position in the ensemble resembles, too, those of the tourists who gaze upon the city-views in many of the maps in Georg Braun and Franz Hogenburg’s celebrated Civitates orbis terrarium, a work that grew and circulated widely in the years immediately prior to Mademoiselle de Scudéry’s “Carte du Tendre.” See Skelton 1965.
6. 6. Claude Filteau (1980, 206) draws two perspectival diagrams to explain how the map is at once monocular and binocular in structure. As if commenting on the play of voices in Malle’s film, he notes, “it is not through precious dialogues that the value of the routes taken on the Carte will be seen, but rather across the precious dialogues that the strategies of sentiment will be made visible. The Carte du Tendre is at once dialogic and strategic.” His words also pertain to the reading of the shot itself. There reigns dispute over the direction of the flow of water in the river, and hence of the spiritual itinerary. In “Le Pays de Tendre: L’enjeu d’une carte” (1979, 40–57) Filteau believes that the river (and affect) move from Tendre to Nouvelle Amitié, but clearly, as Malle’s film confirms, it goes in the opposite direction, as Kline (1992, 51) astutely notes by showing that the lovers find new friendship before sharing tenderness and setting forward toward the unknown at the “dangerous hour of dawn,” dangerous being analogue to La Mer dangereuse where Inclination ends and loses its name.
7. 7. The tracking shots attest to the fact that they are in the mode of transport that moves on a multilayered map (of Burgundy, of Tenderness, and of recall of the cars that drive to the Château de Solognes in La Règle du jeu) at the same time they are outside, thus pulling the camera into the overall space of the film. The mapping impulse is even more obvious when Bernard is heard, voice-off, outside of the château, recounting to Jeanne’s husband and to the guests the itinerary they took. The camera follows her bursting in laughter as she changes her clothes and moves left and right in her bedroom (just over the courtyard).
8. 8. Panofsky 1955, 295–320, offers an inventory of its tradition of precarious beauty.
9. 9. The art of getting lost in a landscape belongs to the tradition of the mystical fable. A person goes into a space outside of the order of cognition while remaining inside of a charted territory. Mystical stories, notes Michel de Certeau, are of spatial and often cartographic form. The reader of the tale, the person who walks in the garden, and the spectator of the landscape seek to lose themselves in their given milieus. In a telling analysis of Hieronymous Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights,” titled “A Place in Which to Be Lost,” Certeau draws on Paul Klee to discern different ways of moving about and through the painting. In a work of art, he notes of Klee in his Theory of Modern Art, roads are arranged for the spectator’s eye to explore a landscape in the way an animal grazes a pasture. So too Bosch’s garden “offers ways of getting lost. Sighting points are arranged for possibilities of wandering. Unmoored, as in a dream, from assured meanings, they come from afar” (1982, 93–94). A delightful “atopia” grounds the travel in the painting. Such, too, is the landscape in the idyllic moments of Les Amants, and for the good reason that the allegorical map is both a frame and a device that allows the lovers to lose themselves in an otherwise controlled space.
10. 10. “Le pli est inséparable du vent. Ventilé par l’éventail, le pli n’est plus celui de la matière à travers lequel on voit, mais celui de l’âme dans laquelle on lit . . ., le pli de l’Evénement [The fold is inseparable from wind. Ventilated by the fan, the fold is no longer that of matter through which we see, but that of the soul in which we read . . ., the fold of the Event],” writes Gilles Deleuze (1988, 43). Kline (1992, 31–32, 39) establishes a vital connection between the scarves worn in the film and Magritte’s Les Amants, a painting that figures in the film much in the same way as the Carte du Tendre.
11. 11. Taking leave of Jacques Lacan, Anthony Vidler (2000, 13–14, 212–13) notes that in art and architecture mirrors are always framed and thus denote the limits of their own illusory reflections. A similar sense of limit is felt here.
12. 12. In his work on American cinema in the 1970s Raymond Bellour studies the ways that rhetorical systems are multiple and often varied within themselves. The films produce “mirages” of order (e.g., 1975, 346–47). The same “classical effect” is given here.
13. 13. In the tradition of the emblem an image is conceived as a “silent speaker,” as a voice that whispers through the mix of language and picture, notes Gisèle Mathieu-Castellani. Emblems “speak to the dream of transparency that inhabits the imagination . . . in its desire to make the world speak, to restore the mute language of signs” (1988, 29). The same effect has been studied in chapter 1 (note 20).
14. 14. If not the Guide vert, then Guy Arbellot (1973, 765–91). The “tender” route that the couple takes is on the ground of a revolution in transportation and its mapping. To obtain a sense of the history of the road on which Jeanne and Bernard are driving it suffices to see the articulation of roads on the great Cassini maps (1789) of the French provinces. These maps were the basis for highway planning and for the Michelin projections of the kind that the couple studies before they enter into the light of day at the “dangerous hour of dawn.”
15. 15. In his reading of these words, Santos Zunzunegui (2001, 118–91) shows that for the novelist and the filmmaker form is totalizing. Malle makes the same point in the ending to Les Amants.

1. 1. Patrice Higonnet notes that the Exposition of 1889 set Paris “under the sign of triumphant science.” Baron Haussmann’s city, “the mythical capital of urban modernity, now became (in theory at least) the capital of progress, technology, science, and rationality” (2002, 358). The Exposition of 1900, he adds, was “far more phantasmagorical,” and cause, with the unveiling of the east-west line of the subway and addition of electric lighting at the Place de la Concorde (360), for a greater distance from the traumatic past of the Commune and the Franco-Prussian War. In her conclusion to Paris as Revolution (1995) Priscilla Parkhurst Ferguson speculates that the Exposition which illuminated the Tower and inaugurated the metro strove to produce a new beginning, in a new century, bereft of a highly conflicted past that reached back to 1789.
2. 2. Jean Starobinski (1973) studies the contradiction that philosophers of enlightenment faced when they refused to think of night and shadow that might color the experience of reason: hence the affiliation of perpetual Light with a reign of Terror (see also chapter 1, note 29). The textured light in Les 400 coups can be appreciated through this optic.
3. 3. “Soleil cou coupé” [Sun neck cut off] are the final words that play on the visual, almost cinematic montage of the sun setting as if it were a sphere cut away from the heavens as might a head from its neck. Apollinaire turns Mallarmé’s highly wrought description of a sunset in the form of a “handsome suicide” [“Victorieusement fuit le suicide beau”] into a compelling figure of graphic motion.
4. 4. In “Lyrical Ideograms,” on the year 1913, I argued that “Zone” “displays a cinematic aspect” through “movements established by tensions among space, line, letters, and forms in passage” (Conley 1989, 843). The effect of Apollinaire verse is close to what Giuliana Bruno describes of “filmic flow” in early cinema based on itinerary: “The geographical route is the one the motion picture took as it created a haptic language of shifting viewpoints. When one rethinks representation by way of nautical and fluvial cartography, it comes as no surprise that early cinema, as an international phenomenon, insistently portrayed urban space by reproducing the captivating fluvial motion of cities” (2002, 183–84).
5. 5. Denby 1969, 11. Reference to specific shots will be taken from this edition.
6. 6. Flamand’s name erupts into the film as a memory of lost time. He played the role of “Dédé” in Jean Renoir’s first sound film, La Chienne (1931) and, by force of his own sad fate and that of the Second World War, had virtually never since been seen. His face swollen and wrinkled by the wear and tear of life and alcohol, he plays a cameo role as René Bigey’s father, a man more interested in seeing friends at a “club” than spending time with his son (shots 239–44). Guy Decomble is of more recent and pertinent vintage. Having played the chief of police in Jean-Pierre Melville’s Bob le Flambeur (1956), he embodied the force of law and order but also, as a friend of the outlaw protagonist, an admirer of truancy and a practitioner of illegalism.
7. 7. Benton 1989, 1–5, and Bloch 1989, 6–13. In Bloch’s article appears the very same map (in an English version) that in the film is to the right of Doinel who writes his inscription.
8. 8. “En marge de ‘l’érotisme au cinéma’” (April 1957), a review of Lo Duca’s L’Erotisme au cinema, published in 1956 (Bazin 1999, 249–56).
9. 9. In the middle of the film, in a rare moment of intimate exchange, Antoine says that he would like to join the navy. “J’aimerais voir la mer” [I’d love to see the sea] (shot 228). René responds, unconsciously referring to the maps seen in the classroom, that he has seen the English Channel, the Atlantic, and (shot 229) the Mediterranean, but not the North Sea.
10. 10. Doinel’s mer might be comparable to Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari’s concept of a hypothetically “smooth space,” an espace lisse, that needs to be thought of both geographically and psychically (1980).
11. 11. Holland in Denby 1969.
12. 12. The shot of Doinel’s father studying his map is found in the restored version of the film and is described in the appendix of Denby (1969, 163).
13. 13. Baecque and Toubiana 2001, 198. For Truffaut the proper name can circulate in myriad directions, offering the spectator variously inventive itineraries of interpretation.
14. 14. Quoted by Jacob (1992, 439; 2006, 347). Jacob adds that in its first editions G. Bruno’s famous Tour de France par deux enfants, a geographical fiction of the itinerary two orphan children lead through France lacked a map of the country. The book fits in the general context of Truffaut’s juvenile geography, a point made clear by Jacques and Mona Ozouf (1997, 277–302). In La Tour de France par deux enfants we learn “that the grandeur of a country is not restricted to the extension of its territory but to the force of the French soul, to the generosity of their enterprises,” and by “work and moral progress” (287), the very concerns of Petite-Feuille, a pedagogue overwhelmed by the chaos of his classroom.
15. 15. In In the Metro, a translation of Un ethnologue dans le métro, Marc Augé thus writes of a person’s growth and formation in the Parisian subway: “To every station are tied knots of memories that cannot be untangled, memories of these rare moments, Stendhal used to say, ‘for which life is worth living,’” an observation confirmed by the fact that “[t]o speak of the metro first of all means to speak of reading and of cartography. I seem to recall that in the history atlases of my childhood, pupils were invited to measure the alternating periods of growth and decay in France.... There is something of an accordion effect in the image of my life presented to me by a subway map.” He adds that the placenames in the subway often constitute “a more secret cartography” in which the significant moments of a person’s life, like the “phases” of a painter’s career, are associated with various subway stations. A “blue phase” would have as analogue the “Maubert-Mutualité” moment, and so forth (2002, 9–10).
16. 16. One Wednesday afternoon he cut school in order to read The Three Musketeers, went relatively far away to avoid being seen, and happened upon a bombardment in the early evening when everyone rallied into the metro for protection. He spent the night underground with Dumas under his arms, “without thinking about my parents,” before going directly to school the next day where, in the afternoon, his mother, “dead with disquiet,” awaited him. The art of prevarication that he learned in school, Truffaut’s biographers observe, might have given rise to the boy’s remark, fifteen years later in Les 400 coups, that “it’s my mother . . . M’sieu [Petite-Feuille], she’s dead”: (Baecque and Toubiana 2001, 40). The scenes in which the parents are struck with fear when someone knocks at the door of their apartment cannot fail to recall the search tactics that Nazis and Pétainistes led in ferreting for Jews and dissidents during the Occupation (shots 123–24 in Denby 1969, 52–53).
17. 17. Anne Gillain elegantly studies the point in Les 400 coups and tributary films by Truffaut through emphasis on its presentation of primal phantasies “which are inherent in the development and maturation of any human being” (2000, 149). As in a Balzacian itinerary, the film brings into the city a drama that had begun, in Les Mistons, in the country.

1. 1. The same author’s “Selling Maps, Selling Highways: Rand-McNally’s ‘Blazed Trails Programs’” (1993b, 77–89) studies the utopian strategies and “self-congratulatory rhetoric” in the design of road maps that led to the production of the national highway system.
2. 2. At the beginning of a meticulous study of You Only Live Once Tom Gunning (2000, 234–35) remarks how Lang’s film tends to “pare away the visual world and leave only the essentials.” Lang succeeds by finding “this aspect of sight not only in his many diagrams and maps, but in his topographical shots, which view space from a point of view which facilitates its abstraction into an essential design.” Gunning contrasts Lang’s taste for composition, for “the graphic armature of the visual, as opposed to the delight in the textured variety of a visual field found in directors like Griffith or Renoir.” Louis Menand (2003, 169–77) allies the background of French New Wave cinema with Arthur Penn’s conception and realization of Bonnie and Clyde. Penn’s film takes a road back to Lang through the landscape of the cinema d’auteur.
3. 3. At first Louise seems to be a reincarnation of Cassie (Anne Sheridan), the waitress who serves coffee and terse one-liners to patrons of a truck stop along a California highway in They Drive by Night (d. Raoul Walsh, 1940). To her credit (so it seems) Louise works in a diner that is not a branch of Burger King, Subway, Pizza Hut, or McDonald’s.
4. 4. Elizabeth W. Spelman and Martha Minow (1996, 272) argue that the film turns on the legal issue of justifiable action. Emphasis here is that the ladies’ debates about their actions lead to a didactic mission related to allegorical cartography.
5. 5. Deleuze 1988, 27. He adds that such “is the very idea of baroque perspective.”
6. 6. Jean-Louis Leutrat and Suzanne Liandrat-Guigues (1990, 178–82) show that Stagecoach builds on relations of fate, seen in playing cards taken to be signs of geography given by the context of Monument Valley. The Monument Valley is a virtual “platte map” on which the action takes place.
7. 7. The map, first printed in copperplate in 1595, is frequently reproduced on calendars that feature masterpieces of baroque cartography. See Burden 1996, 112–13, entry 88, and Karrow 1993, 376–406. The version consulted here is a facsimile in the Harvard Map Collection (M3000.1595).
8. 8. Viewers familiar with the map would know that on the left side on the bottom (next to Thelma’s chin) a map of Haiti is set on contrast to the Gulf of Mexico (stretching from the “Rio del Espiritu sanctu” or Mississippi down and around to the Yucatan peninsula).
9. 9. In an alert but unpublished viewing of the sequence T. Jefferson Kline notes that “Zip” is a sort of “message without a code.” Systems of surveillance and advertising use “zip codes” to locate where and who we are. At this moment, when they are “zipped,” the two ladies are totally lost.
10. 10. The cleanest and clearest reproduction of this monumental work (545 × 825 mm) is in Schilder 1986, map 4. See also Schilder’s comprehensive historical treatment of Visscher’s cartographic vision (1981, 41–51). In his description of the map Rodney Shirley (1983, 317, entry 294) aptly notes that the two central hemispheres are “nearly overwhelmed by the richness and artistic invention of the border decorations,” in which Europe, personified on the top, is paid homage by Indians of the other continents. It is impossible to discern much of the detail. In view is the large cartouche in the lower Pacific region of the western hemisphere. The four men who first circumnavigated the globe—Magellan, Cavendish, Noort, and Drake—stand about a dais on which are draped heraldic cloth printed with descriptions of their exploits. Shirley concludes that the “engraving as a whole is a masterly combination of all the emblems of the age; the two hemispheres of the world, the heavens, mythology and the classical past, the pride of recent explorers, man’s duties throughout the changing seasons, and the Christian obligation of every being.”
11. 11. Thelma is attracted to the bottom of the vagrant youth (Brad Pitt) who eventually robs them. By contrast, in respect to her husband: “You could park a car in the shadow of his ass.” The remark is heard when the Thunderbird approaches an intersection where the camera has panned from the sight of the two wheels of a bicycle parked by a telephone pole to catch the approaching car that displays its two sets of double headlamps.
12. 12. In Vie des formes (1968 [1947]), Henri Focillon characterized the baroque aesthetic as one that arches back upon and almost historicized the forms that made it possible. It refers to earlier experiment and classical solutions within its own style. In Thelma and Louise the baroque instance is not only found in the bent and twisted shapes that recur everywhere in the image field, as indicated by the maps, but also in the reference to many snippets of film that had defined the genre.
13. 13. The shot attests to what Metz (1991b) called the “mobile geography of cinema.” For Metz subject-positions are impossible to locate in cinema because the voice is never attached to its speaker. It ambles about the screen and thus also underscores how much the medium is one in which indirect free discourse—a point that Pasolini championed (articulated in Deleuze 1983, 106–7)— reigns. The geography of film owes much to the fact that in the field of the image speech never has specific origin or destination. In this film the point is made mystically clear on the vista of the Grand Canyon.
14. 14. Noteworthy are the conclusions to Colorado Territory (1949) and White Heat. The sequence of Desperate Journey in which Alan Hale falls from a rooftop is similar in texture, and so also is a murder in Northern Pursuit (1943).
15. 15. In a sequence shot in the parking lot of low-budget motel (in North Carolina) in Bright Leaves (2003), director Ross McElwee presents himself looking through the lens of his camera that is aimed, from what seems to be a painted parking stall on the asphalt outside of his room, at a mirror on the wall inside. The effect of a mise-en-abyme is given as he notes in voiceover that the pleasure of filming in these areas has “narcotic” attraction, an attraction in the film that fits the broader theme of nicotine addiction. A narcotic pleasure (in a room for smokers, and in Jimmy’s gym in the countershot, where he puffs away on his cigarette) is shown, too, in this sequence of Thelma and Louise.
16. 16. Although they include globes and maps, “The Astronomer” (1668) and “The Geographer” (1668) are not comparable to the paintings where women and maps are juxtaposed.
17. 17. The viewer is reminded immediately of Gilles Deleuze’s concept (1988, 6–7) of the “baroque room” in which light does not enter from a window but that is felt through harmonic folds.
18. 18. Anthony Vidler (2000, 10–11, 230–33) writes the intersection of philosophical and psychoanalytical spaces that are “warped” in the way they are sensed subjects who live in a complex process of projection and introjection.
19. 19. Noteworthy is that in this film the men watch television and the women do not. Their desire is not where the viewers’ might be. By contrast, in Robert Siodmak’s The Killers (1946) a long flashback depicts the robbery of a payroll from a hat factory in Hackensack. A crane shot in a long and complex career almost self-consciously reflects, on the windshield of a car that makes its getaway, the figure of the cameraman and his assistant poised on a crane. Siodmak uses anamorphosis to relate the memory-image to the artifice of its invention. By contrast, in this sequence Scott seems to invoke the artifice that he simultaneously represses.
20. 20. Sharon Willis (1997, 108) remarks cogently that the film “parades” its own takeover of clichés that identify things masculine and feminine in contemporary popular culture. The two women challenge our readings of “clichéd postures” and “the effects of identification in our histories as consumers of popular culture.” Willis (and also Spelman and Minow 1996) provides ample bibliographies of criticism devoted to this feature.

1. 1. See chapter 7, and Denby 1969, 24, shot 39.
2. 2. The reader of Luce Giard’s introductions to the English editions of Michel de Certeau’s two volumes of political writings (1993 and 1994) quickly intuits that they were relaunched in France in the early 1990s and in Anglophone countries later in the decade to raise political consciousness that had severely eroded since the later 1960s. “Certeau was writing,” she notes, “in the context of a fully employed society, when it was all the easier to clearly denounce alienation in labor in that the latter was available to everyone” (1993, xiii). Kassovitz’s La Haine, in the same vein, uses a mobile cartography in its backward glance to 1968 to politicize the present moment of his film.
3. 3. All reference to the scenario will be indicated between parentheses by the number of the sequence and, respectively, that of the page on which the citation appears. This working edition of the screenplay does not always follow the final version of Jusqu’ici tout va bien...
4. 4. Villon 1941, 215. The translation of the quatrain—no doubt the finest in the English language—is by Preston Sturges. Author of the screenplay of If I Were King (1938, directed by Frank Lloyd), Sturges penned translations of several of the poems of the Testament, including these last words and the “Ballade des pendus.” Villon, played by Ronald Colman, lends a mix of elegance and wit to the scene when, en route to execution by Louis XI (Basil Rathbone), he offers the lines in response to an admiring lover (Ellen Drew) who embraces the roguish gentleman, pleading with him at this threshold of death, “Oh, please! Say something funny!”
5. 5. The situation is reminiscent of what Michel de Certeau (1994, 68) remarked about the state of French subjects and the ruling orders of the nation in 1968: People who are the object of an ethnological investigation are “[r]éduits à n’être plus que des marginaux figés eux-mêmes dans un retour à leur histoire primitive [such would be immigrants in the suburbs] . . ., ils n’existent plus, dans la communication, qu’au titre de ce que nous disons d’eux” [reduced to being nothing more than border dwellers frozen in a return to their primitive history... they exist in communication only by dint of what we say about them] (1997, 33).
6. 6. In the context of the “total social fact” of exchange, Claude Lévi-Strauss (1955, 348) staged a scenario of ritual violence that hovered between commerce and war. For opposing bands of Nambikwara Indians negotiation is not easy: “Aussi, la rencontre de deux groupes, quand elle peut se dérouler de façon pacifique, a-t-elle pour conséquence une série de cadeaux réciproques; le conflit fait place au marché” [Therefore, when it can unwind in a peaceful manner, the meeting of two groups leads to a series of reciprocal gifts; conflict gives way to commerce]. Kassovitz reverses the scenario while holding to a primal theater in which the players are exclusively male.
7. 7. Truffaut’s Les Mistons is exemplary, and so also A bout de souffle (1960) whose screenplay Truffaut had authored. But present in this context is Pierrot le fou. In Godard’s film Pierrot sits listlessly in a theater, his copy of Elie Faure in his hands, watching newsreels of the first combat in Vietnam.
8. 8. See Rouch 2003, 88–91, 188–95, on self and possession in this film that later inspired Jean Genet’s Les Nègres.
9. 9. See chapter 4 above and Lestringant 1996. Following a model given by Sartre in Huis clos and Genet in Les Bonnes, Elaine Scarry (1985) insists over and again that all representations of torture require a third party—a spectator—to maintain their symbolic effects.
10. 10. We can again recall Marc Augé: “Parler du métro, c’est donc parler d’abord de lecture et de cartographie. . . . [L]e plan du métro, c’est aussi la carte du Tendre ou la main ouverte qu’il faut savoir plier et scruter pour se frayer un passage de la ligne de vie à la ligne de tête et à la ligne de Coeur” (2002, 18–19); [To speak of the metro first of all means to speak of reading and of cartography . . . The subway map is also the Carte du Tendre or the open hand that one has to know how to fold and study closely in order to blaze a trail from the lifeline to the headline onto the heartline (2002, 9–10)]. The reflection applies both to Les 400 coups and La Haine.
11. 11. In “La Caméra-graffito” Jenny Lefcourt argues that in La Haine allusions to other films confirm an intertextual process that aligns Kassovitz’s feature with cinema of the early Nouvelle vague and with its desire to create a “caméra-stylo” in the heritage of Alexandre Astruc’s alignment of pen and camera (Lefcourt and Conley 1998). Some points of that essay are revisited in the paragraph that follows.
12. 12. Lefcourt 2003, chapter 6. Right-wing readings, she notes, are in Le Figaro Magazine (10 June 1995) while the left-wing view is expressed in Libération (5 June 1995).
13. 13. Lefcourt 2003 reports articles in Le Monde about quarter in difficulty on June 12, 13, 18–19, 20, 22, 23, 24, 27; July 6, 12, 13, 18, 27; August 9, 15, 18, 19, 20–21, 22; September 6, 9, 12, 14, 20, 21. Even Jacques Derrida contributed a leading article on the movement to save Mumia Abu-Jamal from deportation (Le Monde, August 9).
14. 14. Jacob (1992, 35; 2006, 16) writes of Claudio Parmiggiani’s identification of cows and maps: “Five photographs of cows are seen against a background of a pasture—white cows with black spots. Nothing appears out of the ordinary until the black spots are seen arranged in the familiar silhouettes of the Eurasian continent, Australia, the Americas, and Africa, each carefully designed and painted by the artist himself.” (The work is illustrated in figure 39 of the French edition and figure 3 of the English translation.)

1. 1. Deleuze (1988, 26) notes that after the eighteenth century “the fluctuation of a norm replaces the permanence of a law.” Modulation becomes synonymous with new conditions of production. Basing his observations on Gilbert Simondon’s studies of biological genesis and individuation, he remarks that molding (where a form is filled and shaped by a matrix) is tantamount to modulating in a definitive way, whereas modulating is equivalent to molding “‘in a continuous and perpetually variable way.’” It is not difficult to see how political regimes of “discipline” and “control” are plotted from the analogy.
2. 2. Marc Augé (1999, 5) steers a course between law and modulation in a short study of Georges Bataille’s review of Lévi-Strauss’s Elementary Structures of Kinship. Bataille’s reading was “egocentered.” The “idea of transgression meant more for him than the rule while, clearly, for the Levi-Straussian anthropologist transgression or, more generally, the exception is of interest only in respect to the rule that serves as a measure or a point reference.” By a leap of logic it can be speculated that Bataille’s world is under a disciplinary regime where Lévi-Strauss’s, of a modular form, is a world where “control” prevails.
3. 3. See chapter 1, note 24. Along another line of inquiry it would be propitious to speculate that Virilio’s use of perception is quasi-identical to Gilles Deleuze’s observations (1988, 106) that “events” take place before their actual fact for reason of the thousands of “tiny microperceptions” that precede them. “Prehensions” swarm and gather in anticipation of something that will happen.
4. 4. It is worth recalling Deleuze’s argument (1985a, 49–51, also outlined in the introduction above) that modern times are defined by the “map” or diagram that replaces an “archive.” The former models and predicts behavior where the latter had accounted for and preserved its prior forms of existence.
5. 5. It follows the theme of the enemy brothers in the Sophoclean cycle of Theban plays. In cinema conflict between the worthy inheritor who is not of the noble line and the rightful but inept heir may have its most classical expression in Anthony Mann, the director who moves, notes Jacques Rancière (2001), between classical tragedy and family romance in The Man from Laramie (1955). When it is seen from this perspective it shares affinities with the same director’s Fall of the Roman Empire (1964), a principal model for Gladiator.
6. 6. In Objective, Burma!, contrary to the dictum that “the map is not the territory,” the film becomes the map—the simulacrum—of itself. The military operation is given to decipherment of the map on which the men are walking. The western is a genre that sometimes mixes with the war movie. In a collective work on Hollywood myths and the western the authors of Le Western (Dort et al. 1966) include a topos entitled “briefing,” in which sheriffs, sitting on the front of their desks set in front of wall-maps of the Texas territory, Kansas, and so on, point to the images while telling their posses of the dangerous missions for which they have been chosen.
7. 7. Jeremy Black (1997, 6) notes that in the fifteenth century Ptolemy’s maps carried authority, but new findings, “accelerated by printing and European exploration,” quickly turned them into historical artifacts. The 1513 edition of Ptolemy, published in Strasbourg, was the first to carry “old” and “new” maps on successive pages.
8. 8. It is worth recalling that Erwin Panofsky (1960/1972) argued that, unlike the “revivals” of the classical world in the Carolingian and twelfth-century renascences, the Renaissance obtained the accuracy of its depiction of the Roman past through its realization that it was very much apart from it. Rome became more properly a scientific object than a living element of collective subjectivity.
9. 9. Indeed, if it does, the proximity of Gladiator to Saving Private Ryan shows that much of the writing of the history of the latter is built upon Jurassic Park (1993). The panzers and half-tracks in Spielberg’s film play a narrative role akin to the tyrannosaurus, stegosaurus, and other monsters that cross the paths the protagonist-tourists follow in wandering through their lost world behind enemy lines in a place in Ireland chosen to resemble Normandy.
10. 10. The viewer of these elements of Gladiator finds salient analysis of their effects in Montaigne’s descriptions of the games (1962, 885), built upon a reading of Calpurnius, that “S’il y a quelque chose qui soit excusable en tels excez, c’est où l’invention et la nouveauté fournit d’admiration, non pas la despence” [If there is something excusable in such excess, it is where invention and novelty furnish admiration and not expense]. “Des coches” [Of coaches], an architectural essay that militates against colonial empire, remains one of the most potent of all critiques of early modern political economies. It dovetails elegantly with the effects of simulation in Gladiator.
11. 11. Cruel lucidity is what Michel de Certeau (1993, 21) calls a condition “that seeks respectable authorities by beginning with an examination of real situations,” in which it is clear that illusion “will not lead to truth” (1997 translation, 6). He later speaks of “ocular exoticism” that is used to weave the fabric of collective reverie.
12. 12. Once again Montaigne has critical presence in two sentences on the thumb in the Roman games in “Des pouces” [Of Thumbs], an often overlooked essay (1962, 775–76).
13. 13. For the material that follows I am indebted to Steve Conley and the late Horace Stancil, ardent Giants football fans, who provided tickets for the NFC Championship in 2000 and obtained coveted tickets to Super Bowl XXXI in 2001.
14. 14. The national anthem has been a ritual inauguration of sports events in America only since the end of the Second World War. For generations born after 1940 its ideology of commemoration has been less evident than that of a media-event.

1. 1. In respect to what a map is I follow Harley and Woodward 1987, introduction, and Jacob 1992 and 2006, chapter 1. The former posit a working definition that allows them to distinguish a mappa mundi (a medieval map of the world) from a world map (that appears in print-culture of the Renaissance). The latter defines a map much as an Inuit proverbially treats of snow: he defines maps by their commanding traits and virtues without ever reducing it to a single definition or word. Père François de Dainville’s enduring lexicon of geography and maps (1964) shows how maps are conceived and read differently at different times. Their icons and stenographies change over time and are in flux; so also is the textual matter that serves as their legends or is printed in their field of view. These points of reference constitute a solid foundation for the student of cartographic forms.
2. 2. In his aptly titled Mists of Regret (1995) Dudley Andrew builds a monumental historical and structural study of the aesthetic and political implications of the theme in French cinema of the entredeux-guerres. He and Steven Ungar build much of their cultural history of Popular Front Paris under the banner of the same theme (2005, 177–385).