The New Citroen
extract from MYTHOLOGIES by Roland Barthes 1957
I think that cars today are almost the exact equivalent of the great Gothic cathedrals: I mean the supreme creation of an era, conceived with passion by unknown artists, and consumed in image if not in usage by a whole population which appropriates them as a purely magical object.
It is obvious that the new Citroen has fallen from the sky inasmuch as it appears at first sight as a superlative object .. We must not forget that an object is the best messenger of a world above that of nature: one can easily see in an object at once a perfection and an absence of origin, a closure and a brilliance, a transformation of life into matter (matter is much more magical than life), and in a word a silence which belongs to the realm of fairy-tales. The D.S. – the “Goddess” – has all the features (or at least the public is unanimous in attributing them to it at first sight) of one of those objects from another universe which have supplied fuel for the neomania of the eighteenth century and that of our own science-fiction: the Deesse is first and foremost a new Nautilus.
This is why it excites interest less by its substance than by the junction of its components. It is well known that smoothness is always an attribute of perfection because its opposite reveals a technical and typically human operation of assembling: Christ’s robe was seamless, just as the airships of science-fiction are made of unbroken metal. The DS 19 has no pretensions About being as smooth as cake-icing, although its general shape is very rounded; yet it is the dove-tailing of its sections which interest the public most: one keenly fingers the edges of the windows, one feels along the wide rubber grooves which link the back window to its metal surround. There are in the D.S. the beginnings of a new phenomenology of assembling, as if one progressed from a world where elements are welded to a world where they are juxtaposed and hold together by sole virtue of their wondrous shape, which of course is meant to prepare one for the idea of a more benign Nature.
As for the material itself, it is certain that it promotes a taste for lightness in its magical sense. There is a return to a certain degree of streamlining, new, however, since it is less bulky, less incisive, more relaxed than that which one found in the first periods of this fashion. Speed here is expressed by less aggressive, less athletic signs, as if it were evolving from a primitive to a classical form. This spiritualization can be seen in the extent, the quality and the material of the glass-work. The Deesse is obviously the exaltation of glass, and pressed metal is only a support for it. Here, the glass surfaces are not windows, openings pierced in a dark shell; they are vast walls of air and space, with the curvature, the spread and the brilliance of soap-bubbles, the hard thinness of a substance more entomological than mineral (the Citroen emblem with its arrows, has in fact become a winged emblem, as if one was proceeding from the category of propulsion to that of spontaneous motion, from that of the engine to that of the organism).
We are therefore dealing here with a humanized art, and it is possible that the Deesse marks a change in the mythology of cars. Until now, the ultimate in cars belonged rather to the bestiary of power; here it becomes At once more spiritual and more object-like, and despite some concessions to neomania (such as the empty steering wheel), it is now more homely , more attuned to this sublimation of the utensil which one also finds in the design of contemporary household equipment.
The dashboard looks more like the working surface of a modern kitchen than the control room of a factory; the slim panes of matt fluted metal, the small levers topped by a white ball, the very simple dials, the very discreetness of the nickel-work, all this signifies a kind of control exercised over motion rather than performance. One is obviously turning form an alchemy of speed to a relish in driving.
The public, it seems, has admirably divined the novelty of the themes which are suggested to it. Responding at first to the neologism (a whole publicity campaign had kept it on the alert for years), it tries very quickly to fall back on a behaviour which indicates adjustment and a readiness to use (“You’ve got to get used to it “). In the exhibition halls, the car on show is explored with an intense, amorous studiousness: it is the great tactile phase of discovery, the moment when visual wonder is about to receive the reasoned assault of touch (for touch is the most demystifying of all senses, unlike sight, which is the most magical). The bodywork, the lines of union are touched, the upholstery palpated, the seats tried, the doors caressed, the cushions fondled; before the wheel, one pretends to drive with one’s whole body. The object here is totally prostituted, appropriated: originating from the heaven of Metropolis , the Goddess is in a quarter of an hour mediatized, actualizing through this exorcism the very essence of petit-bourgeois advancement.
Force Majeur is a film of piercing wit, much like the seething hatred of Godard’s Weekend but encased in an otherwise (I think, deliberately) unremarkable style. This is a series of moments, scenes from a crap contemporary European holiday that buzz with electric toothbrushes and electric-pop, but also vibrate with a unsettling, and at times very funny psychodrama.
On the slopes of a French ski resort, a nice; bourgeois family collapses. When a controlled avalanche threatens to sweep the family away, the mother grabs her children to protect them. But as the mist clears, and it becomes evident that they were never really in danger, it is the father‘s role that looks the most damaged by the forces of nature. Rather then protect his family, the father (played by a thick-jawed, Johannes Kuhnke) simply turned-tail, and ran. In the eyes of the mother (icily played by Lisa Loven Kongsli), the strong, protective, father is reimagined as a pathetic, useless, and emasculated eunuch, at odds with her fantasy of him. Unable to escape his wife’s withering gaze he becomes dejected, pathetic, useless- exactly what she casts him as. Theron, the family unravels with a devastating velocity, as the parental relationship is pulled apart by the emotional forces brimming beneath the surface.
Neither of the parents dare truly utter it but it is clear that unless the father plays the right role, their marriage will be swept away. The brilliant series of sketches that follows rely largely on the unspoken, and the unpictured. The family cannot utter the truly hilarious cowardice of the Dad, because to imagine for a moment that he was simply scared is unspeakable. The fallout is a grim exercise in schadenfreude, which exorcises the audience of envy for stable homes, and nice holidays. The film becomes populist film-making in a time of austerity, Netflix Fodder, because it brings down the facade of the middle-class family in an avalanche of its own bullshit.
At times characters appear just out of the frame and engage with the father, without their faces even being seen, these frames become POV shots for the outsiders, casting the audience in their shoes. We are invited to watch the family’s arguments from the perspective of a mute janitor who smokes from a balcony opposite. The banal arguments of bourgeois life are made strange by our distance from them, given perspective by the eyes of the other holidaymakers. In this public-private resort the family can’t quite close the door on their crisis and we are invited in as observers, or tourists, in their hilarious, tragic crisis.
Despite the cutting subject matter the film only really allows itself to experiment in one moment where it slips into a hallucinatory mode. In this sequence, the father is inexplicably chased down by a stampeding herd of laddish males whom scream and harangue him in a trance-like ritual of football, lager, and topless homosociality. In this sequence a bizarro-mirror is held up to the world of men’s magazines and shaving commercials, of ultra-hooliganism and hetero-pornography, it is an orgy of self-flaggelating masculinity that shows itself as the deranged monstrosity that it is, but Tomas and his family are left to live with its very real failings.
Funny, sharp, and thoughtful, this is a well aimed stab at a script rooted in the everyday. This film is as sharp as Godard’s Weekend, but without the maverick form that limits that films reach. A return ticket through the European bestiary, that will leave you with a few keepsakes worth the journey.
A falling fire extinguisher
Fell like the sunset- pictured
In a postcard, slipped
Between prison bars.
The worker woken
From a gravy boat slumber
Babbles in Italian:
‘Autoreduzione’, with no comprehension.
A migrant murdered, drowned
Under water seeping from
Every sundered border a
Clefted pate- a traffic cone.
A falling fire extinguisher
Fell like the sunset- pictures
In a postcard, slipped
Between prison bars.