I can’t stop thinking about Jean-Louis Trintignant, his deep voice, his never healed wounds, the resonance of his words, his quest for integrity, his melancholy carried over half a century of cinema, to his roles on the razor’s edge often, carrying a threat or concern.
I liked his moral elegance, his modesty—that form of pride mixed with good manners. He defined himself as an anarchist, enjoyed music as a music lover, cultivated modesty. The Parisian human comedy stank in his nose. The actor of My night at Maud’s and D’Love lived near Uzès, in his vineyards, with his companion, Marianne, enjoying the simplicity of contact with the villagers.
He had been blind for several years and felt greatly diminished by it. The Grim Reaper, he looked her in the face, even without eyes, called her bravado. This cancer patient felt at the end of his road for a long time. He left, it is presumed serene, last Friday, prepared for a long time to bow out. He came from another era, neither vulgar nor flashy, cherished silence. He found it.
I had met him in Cannes. Also interviewed by phone before his show in Montreal on Vian, Desnos, Prévert, at the Outremont theatre. We had recited poetry, going beyond the framework of the interview, having fun with the music of the verses. He had never succeeded in interpreting satisfactorily The drunken Boat, by Arthur Rimbaud, with esoteric mysteries so difficult to convey. It bothered him. Trintignant had tried again on the telephone. Unhappy with the result. We had laughed. Conventional interviews hardly interested him anymore. He was looking for bits of meaning everywhere.
In Cannes, Montreal or Paris, in recent years, between his performances or his public testimonies, someone had to accompany him to prevent him from tripping, his eyesight was so weak. It hurt to see. But his charming smile brought him back to us. He who had been a young first alongside Brigitte Bardot in And God created the woman, de Vadim, the companion of BB, the lover of Romy Schneider, the racing driver, the last romantic lover wore at the end of the journey like a mask this hollowed and dark face of tragedy. Trintignant was becoming a sage, his conscience sharpened, his illness appealing to lofty harmonies. But an unfortunate sage. His heart was shattered on the death of his daughter Marie, who disappeared under the blows of Bertrand Cantat in 2003.
At his side, at the beginning of the millennium, he had interpreted Apollinaire on stage, the Poems to Lou, very erotic. Marie, like her father, had an unforgettable voice. Together, they made sparks. Their relationship was close. His bloody and revolting disappearance felt like an amputation. Especially since he had already lost another daughter, Pauline. Here is that suffering buried with him. “For two months, I remained prostrate, he confided in On the side of Uzes, interviews with his friend André Asséo. A living dead, unable to move. Two months practically without opening his mouth, without making the slightest judgment. Life around me passed without my realizing it. At the end of this long time, I decided to live. To live again. Poetry came to my rescue. »
To this man who escaped from hell on the wings of poetry, who could have tried to tell nonsense? He who discerned so many things without looking. Him whom glory encumbered and who no longer had anything to prove to himself.
He was smarter, finer, more secretive, more sensitive, more sophisticated than the great French rivals of his generation, Delon and Belmondo. Trintignant had loved above all to embody Hamlet on the boards for ten years, finding from time to time new meanings to the Shakespearean replicas. He will never have yielded to the effects of a toga. His playing was precise, almost imperceptible. He sought to step aside to embrace the roles furthest from his personality in order to put himself totally at the service of this dramatic art. Michael Haneke was directing it as he always wanted to be. By asking him to play as little as possible. Trintignant discovered the filmmaker of his life late in life.
His public spoke to him for a long time of his great performances in And God created the woman, of Vadim, in A man and a woman, of Lelouch, in My night at Maud’s by Rohmer, in Z, of Costa-Gavras, in The conformist, by Bertolucci, in Love, of Haneke against a backdrop of illness and announced death. He was looking away. In himself, where his missing daughters still lived. Her beautiful voice is silent. Poetry has flown from its couch.
Requiescat in pace.