Welcome to “Throwback Thursdays.” Every Thursday, the Arts & Life section will publish reviews highlighting older or more obscure works that are currently not playing in traditional theaters. This week, we are reviewing Godard’s avant-garde music documentary on the Rolling Stones, “Sympathy for the Devil,” which played Saturday at the Berkeley Art Museum and Pacific Film Archive as part of their multi-month-long event “Hippie Modernism: Cinema and Counterculture.”
Jean-Luc Godard has always been an iconoclast. His first film, 1960’s “Breathless,” was hailed by Roger Ebert as nothing short of revolutionary in its “headlong pacing, cool detachment … [and] dismissal of authority” and would go on to be one of the seminal works of the French New Wave. Godard’s mid-career work, 1980’s “Every Man for Himself,” explored the fraught relationship between cinema and still photography. His most recent movie, 2014’s “Goodbye to Language,” challenged the limitations of 3D cinema. In each and every film he makes, Godard constantly attempts to answer the fundamental question memorably posed by the film theorist André Bazin: “What is cinema?”
And Godard’s 1968 film “Sympathy for the Devil,” also known as “One Plus One,” is no different. The plot is fragmented and difficult to decipher. The pseudo-protagonist is a woman named Eve Democracy. Since the majority of the film consists of footage of the Rolling Stones recording their 1968 hit single “Sympathy for the Devil,” they may also be the protagonists. This footage is then further supplemented by recordings of the militant activities of the Black Panthers and excerpts from a novel detailing the sexual escapades of world leaders like Joseph Stalin, Gamal Abdel Nasser and Princess Grace Kelly of Monaco.
In his ambition to fuse together all of these disparate elements, Godard is only partially successful. There is something noble about Godard’s attempt to completely annihilate all cinematic conventions and create a new mode of moviemaking in the process. And some of Godard’s experiments in the film are fascinating. But others simply do not work. Ultimately, “Sympathy for the Devil” showcases the best and worst of Godard’s style. His relentless desire to push the boundaries of cinema enlivens some sequences. But oftentimes, his failures undercut his trenchant political commentary, resulting in a film that can be unbearably dull.
Shortly before Godard made “Sympathy for the Devil,” he made “Weekend,” which concerns the bloody demise of the French bourgeoisie. In 1967, it addressed the collapse of modern society, speaking to the chaos of the late 1960s so well that many contemporary commentators felt that future directors would be unable to create a work as powerful or as relevant. Fittingly, in the film’s closing credits, Godard wrote “End of Cinema.” By this logic, “Sympathy for the Devil” must be a post-cinematic work. Indeed, in the final moments of the film, Godard expresses his feelings on the futility of film as an art form. As Eve Democracy runs toward the ocean, accompanied by the Black Panthers, the unnamed narrator intones: “There were fools running around making noise … they must be making a film.”
Yet, Godard finds himself ensnared in a paradox with “Sympathy for the Devil.” He wants to destroy cinema, but he loves it too much. In the Black Panthers sequence, one member of the group wears the same red jacket that James Dean wore in Nicholas Ray’s “Rebel Without a Cause.” Another section of the film is introduced by a title card reading “Sight and Sound,” a reference to the esteemed British film journal. Would a man who believed cinema was nothing but sound and fury really include these homages?
The scenes that do succeed are distinctly cinematic. At one point, Godard takes us into a bookstore run by a Nazi. The bookstore is stocked with literature of all types, from comic books to cheap science fiction paperbacks to pornographic material. People from all walks of life frequent this bookstore, from dirty old men to innocent little girls. And after making their selections and checking out, every patron is required to perform the “Heil Hitler” salute. No customer questions this rule. They “Heil Hitler” and leave with their books.
Here, Godard seems to suggest that popular culture is inherently repressive. It reminds me of the works of the Marxist Louis Althusser, who argued that everything we read serves to reinforce the ruling ideology and allows us to become puppets for the totalitarian, quasi-Nazi state. Still, I will remember Godard’s bookstore more than Althusser’s dry theories, because Godard uses his mastery of cinematic techniques to elucidate this complex idea. Godard employs long tracking shots to highlight the myriad number of books lining the shelves, and quick cuts to show us how numerous and diverse the patrons are.
But Godard’s methods and intentions do not always work in such beautiful harmony. Unfortunately, sometimes Godard’s avant-garde cinematic techniques obfuscate his commentary. In numerous points throughout the film, Godard is content to just interview personages like the Black Panther members or Eve Democracy about controversial issues from the 1960s. For example, an interviewer asks a Black Panther about the divisions in his political party. He responds that “the romantic integrationists feel [that] by speaking to the black people they will revolt spontaneously, whereas the activists believe that if you communicate with the people, talk with them, learn with them … [you will understand] the real way to look at things.” This may be a profound statement on race relations, but the interview is about as exciting to watch as “PBS News Hour.” Not even Godard’s intricate tracking shots can enliven this discussion. In trying to move past the end of cinema, “Sympathy for the Devil” just produces ineffective cinema.
Then, there is the footage of the Rolling Stones recording the actual song “Sympathy for the Devil.” As mentioned, this material takes up the bulk of the film, and Godard uses it to conduct some fascinating experiments. Initially, we hear the music, but then, Godard replaces it with excerpts from a sordid political novel. Sometimes during this footage, he cuts out the soundtrack altogether. These choices feel revolutionary, because most concert documentaries exist solely so that we can hear the music of the individual artists. By removing the soundtrack, Godard asks us to consider the value of this film genre, and he craftily achieves his goal of deconstructing some of our conceptions about cinema.
Still, there is too much of this footage, and Godard seems puzzled about what to do with it. I lost count of how many times Mick Jagger told me he “stuck around St. Petersburg … [and] killed the tsar and his ministers.” After cutting out the soundtrack and reinserting it, Godard begins to just circle around the Rolling Stones. Perhaps he is suggesting that making art is inherently tedious, but despite the fascinating tracking shot, the band-shoot itself becomes tedious. Furthermore, the Rolling Stones’ song does not really seem to align with Godard’s aims in the film. While it conveys the milieu of the 1960s, it does little else. “Sympathy for the Devil” might be a great Rolling Stones song, but its statements on the cultural zeitgeists of the era are not exactly nuanced. And it is pretty clear that Godard’s examination of war, imperialism and pacifism is much more complex than the song’s facile statements.
Ultimately, I would not recommend “Sympathy for the Devil” to anyone unfamiliar with Godard’s work. Still, those familiar with his work and seriously interested in the cinema should see it. And the film does feel startlingly relevant in at least one respect: We live in an era in which many artists are looking to discuss political and social issues in their works. Godard’s “Sympathy for the Devil” is a reminder that no matter how extraordinary the times may be, in creating an indelible work of art, some rules still apply.
“Sympathy for the Devil” is also available for viewing at Green Library’s Media and Microtext Center. Its call number is ZDVD 5870.
Contact Amir Abou-Jaoude at amir2 ‘at’ stanford.edu.