Catherine Deneuve granted only one interview to a Quebec media during her visit to Canada in the mid-1990s. This interview took place in Toronto.
Marc-André had definitely had the film bug when he discovered The last metro, by Francois Truffaut. He was the ideal interviewer for Catherine the Great, whom he worshiped. However, there was a catch, or even two…
Marc-André was terrified of flying and had never taken a flight in his life. Also, the interview took place the next day. He did neither one nor two, took the wheel with both hands and drove to Toronto: 11 hours round trip, for an interview of barely 30 minutes.
He was like that, Marc-André. Wholly devoted to his passion for the seventh art and to his work as a critic. Discreet, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but to the artists he was interviewing. A workaholic, meticulous, perfectionist, with encyclopedic knowledge.
PHOTO DAVID BOILY, THE PRESS
Our columnist Marc Cassivi and his colleague – but above all his friend – Marc-André Lussier, in 2021
He almost had to be forced to take a vacation, which he did reluctantly, making sure that the filmmakers and artists did not suffer. He therefore took leave at incongruous times, when the cinematographic news was less abundant. He even decided to undergo a quintuple coronary bypass during an off-peak period, on his vacation time, without saying a word about it. So as not to harm his colleagues or the craftsmen of the seventh art.
He didn’t want to bother. He had made me promise not to tell my colleagues about his intervention. He only told me late, so as not to worry, knowing that I would be abroad. I blamed him a little, knowing that I couldn’t be at his bedside during his convalescence.
I suspect he did it on purpose, so as not to impose himself. He was like that, I tell you.
He had written to me from the hospital, to reassure me. Then from his house a few days ago to tell me everything was fine. We wrote to each other very often, almost daily. Everything and nothing. Not so much cinema, more often American politics, which he was fond of. He would have secretly dreamed of being a Washington correspondent.
I knew him 25 years ago. We were both critics. Then I was, for a few years, his head on the Cinema pages. Thanks to Christiane Charette – with whom, to this day, we went to dinner every year – we became the 2 Marcs, on the radio, on TV, on The Press. And in life. He was first and foremost my great friend.
He was also a film critic as is rare. A bulimic cinephile, a scholar without a diploma, he who had had to start work at 18, as a The Press, where he worked for 45 years. Barely two weeks ago, I hosted a talk on Marc-André’s career for all company employees. He had been embarrassed to be the center of attention.
He was a champion of Quebec and French cinema, in particular. He was always well informed and gave the right time. For the youngest, it was a model of rigor. He was my role model. I always asked him for advice when I had a doubt.
He made me read his reviews and I made him read my columns before publication. I can’t believe he won’t read this one.
We agreed on almost everything. I followed his advice with my eyes closed. Cinema was his life, as evidenced by his impressive DVD library, which was the envy of the filmmakers he interviewed by Zoom years from his home office. He was so passionate about his job that he couldn’t imagine leaving it. The idea of retirement haunted him. He didn’t want to think about it. Anyway, as I kept telling him, The Press couldn’t do without him.
I don’t know how I’m going to do without him. I am writing this column wiping away my tears in a hotel room. We shared a few during our stays in Cannes. He who was afraid of the plane had become a great traveler. I learned of his death at an airport, seeing the dozens and dozens of messages that had been sent to me. I try to console myself by telling myself that he was loved, that he could see it after posting a Facebook status on his operation. Or by hearing this young advertising employee, The Presswho had concluded our chat by admitting to him that it was thanks to him that he had become a lover of cinema.
Today, Quebec cinema is suddenly losing a great ally, The Press, a pillar, and I, a part of myself. Farewell My dear.