Philippe Nahon by Gaspar Noé: to you who won't speak to me anymore
Grandstand. Philippe, my great friend, I just learned that you died, that you will no longer be, that your memory and your life have melted into the great void, where there is no more meaning, neither time nor space. I will no longer have the sweet chance of hugging you, like a month ago, on the eve of general confinement. Since that afternoon when we were able to laugh one last time together, time has stopped. An invisible enemy has made our city a strange ghostly, melancholy paradise. We sleep. We eat. We are still sleeping. We follow the news. We count the sick. We count the dead. And today your name is added to this long list which continues to grow. We are like in a dream, repetitive, in which we believe without really believing it. From now on, the time which built you and which allowed me to meet you will continue for others, which will in turn die out.
We, we met thirty years ago, I dreamed of having fun making movies, like Buñuel or like Franju. You, twenty-five years old my elder, you have been doing it for a long time. When you returned from this dirty colonial war that you hadn't managed to desert and which earned you three years of disciplinary camp, you had started to make films with Reggiani and Melville. Me, I wanted to make a first film with a male character who is the quintessence of what I believed to be a normal man, therefore complex and most often lost. This "hero" must have been much older than me. He was a real man he needed, in his fifties, with a universal and timeless face like that of Jean Gabin. I wanted a Gaul, direct and sentimental. I saw a photo of you and the love at first sight was immediate. You came to my house, a little soaked, and funny in front of this young stranger with inaudible diction. You dreamed of real roles. Play, transform, have fun, make new friends.
As a child with your family you had survived the Second War and later, this time alone, that of Algeria in which you had been forced to participate. You had survived the pleasures of alcohol and tobacco. And even to the frustration of not being able to embody other men as charismatic as you. We adopted immediately and I introduced you to the one who would play your daughter. In no time the matter was closed. We left victorious! We did Carne.You had become my confused and human butcher, too human. You brought so much grace to this character who, by his actions and his thoughts, was your antithesis, that after this first package, rather than shooting a feature film with real means, I wanted only one thing: continue the same story with you, a continuation whether short or long, but with you, and pushing ever further this cornered and enraged man who could not help but love. The title came very quickly: Alone against everyone.It was to be another medium, but after two years of small, scattered and mowed shoots, this sequel has become a film in its own right. Even more than before we had become great allies, true friends who could ask for anything, except the money we did not have. The film would once again be carried by the chaotic thoughts of the butcher, with that spectacular deep, warm and anachronistic voice that was yours. And the only time you said no to me was when we recorded that voice over, which said, "Love, friendship, it doesn't exist. This is all a pipe. ”
You, you believed very deeply in friendship and it seemed inconceivable to you to pronounce these words. I agreed with you, even if I protested that the butcher was a man in depression and that he was not you anyway. You recorded it anyway. Our eyes met and I understood at this moment that this character was actually a mixture of the two of us. That we fought together, among all and against all, to make the most of this area of transgression that cinema can be. We proudly finished this film, then you made many others, mainly with young directors who also identified with you. And when I was able to do my first commercial production, Irreversible,I wanted the film to open with you, and with plans closer than for all the other characters in the story. We stayed together all these years, like two brothers or a nephew and his favorite uncle. Browning had met his Lon Chaney, Scorsese his De Niro. And me, far from these giants, I had met you anyway, and I could never have asked for better.
A few months ago, I bought myself a new camera to shoot a semi-documentary epilogue to the life of our butcher. After your accident, you had trouble memorizing words. So I was happy to imagine a film without pre-written dialogues.
But the world had a big surprise in store for us. These past few days, you may have glimpsed a future that doesn't really work. Our streets are empty, and under the sun, people are afraid of the present as well as the future. This non-living virus that feeds on the lives of others has made its way to your body already very weakened by other ills, and has carried you away. I hope your last moments were sweet. Painkillers sometimes bring peace that you would not otherwise find. In the current situation, there were no final hugs, you had to go alone. There is no funeral, no ceremony. I will not be able to cry with your loved ones. For now, everyone will grieve, alone and as best they can. Alone, and without you.
Life passes. But not the love of your wife Elisabeth or your daughter Nelly or your grandsons Gabin and Nino, any more than my unfiltered friendship or the empathy of the spectators, filmmakers and friends who were lucky enough to discover you on a screen or in life. The men leave, but hopefully some of their traces remain. Your voice will no longer warm us but its echoes will always resonate in me.
Ah, Philippe, what did we have fun! Friendship exists. You were right.
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